Deliverance
by Amarintha
Summary: This is my take on Dean's return from hell how he heals, and who he is, and as you can see, I started posting it in late March so it's my take pre-finale. It's complete.
1. Prologue

(This is basically my idea for a fic. Um, I'm kind of inspired by both Buffy and Angel, but I'm not trying to copy either show, okay? For the record. Um, if you guys like, send me reviews with ideas, or this is all you're going to get. Basically, the title is the important part. It's not a "death fic" I promise.)

**Prologue:**

It's been a year since that day. Bobby promised …well he made me promise to stay away from the crossroads unless he was there, too. So we both agreed to meet up on the anniversary. I can remember that day with the utmost clarity. More so than anything else, ever. I mean, it is the day I lost my brother. The last remnant of my family. Finding myself waxing slightly poetic and certainly overly emotional, I push the thoughts away, sitting in the Impala. I'd visited Bobby, and we'd washed and waxed Dean's baby together. Make her nice and shiny so that when we went to visit…when we went to remember my brother, if he could watch at all, he'd be able to know I was taking care of the Impala. Like hell I wouldn't. It's the only thing I have left from my father and brother. Other than a lot of bad memories and broken dreams. Isn't that a song? Broken Dreams? Something like that. It doesn't matter.

Bobby's truck pulled up, the engine sputtering a little before Bobby switched the machine off, removing the key and heaving himself out of the old pickup. Walking to the Impala, he lightly tapped on the glass, waking up Sam.

"It's almost time," he says quietly. Not that they're really waiting for anything. Just remembering.

Damn those boys. That last day was rough. Dean and Sam were over at my place. Figured it wouldn't kill any of us to have a normal sit down meal like a real family. And for that day, we were. Other than Dean didn't sleep the night before –in fact he's the one who made breakfast. I underestimated the boy, considering I figured he wouldn't be able to cook anything. Well, he might _call_ it 'Cajun style' like John did when he burned the food, but it didn't count. Either way we ate good. I don't think Dean kept anything down, Sam, either, but they did their best. Watched the game, Dean's team won. Bitched about how he should have betted, before realizing there wasn't going to be any use for money where he was going. Voluntarily. Damnit John, I hope you're happy. I hope this is what you wanted for your boys, because this is what you did to them. You broke them, you broke them both. Hell, you just about killed your oldest the day his mother died, too! God the boy wouldn't speak in more than one syllable answers for over a year. Would it have killed you to love them? Because your indifference sure as hell killed them. Then again, it's not my place to speak ill of the dead. But John's out of hell and the guilt doesn't run as thick. Dean wanted to be at the crossroads, he knew that either way, the hell hounds were coming for him. Not the demon, not Lucifer himself, the hell hounds. That's what they do, no matter you resisting them or not. They come for you. He didn't go stand in the middle, he sat in the car until we could all hear the barking. He just didn't want the car scratched. Saw him hug his brother, pull him in tight. I could see the tears on both their faces. Coming out of the Impala, he held up his hands –like Jesus or somethin', I swear, and said somethin', I dunno what, but he came over to my truck. We'd said our goodbyes but he seemed to need something.

I got out of my truck. "Bobby, promise you'll make sure Sam takes care of himself. Please…" I'm sure John's said much the same to his son before, but all the same, "Dean, you don't even have to ask, son. You'n Sam, you're family. And when you're a hunter, family is everything." He nodded, and I forced a smile. Damn my eyes, watering. Dean doesn't need that. "Please, don't let him try to bring me back," Dean adds, his eyes filling with tears. "Last…last thing we need is a huge circle of Winchesters dying and coming back over and over," he told me with a pathetic chuckle. "How long can you be self sacrificing before there's no self left?" I don't know which of us said that, or if one of us even did. I just know I pulled him into a hug. "Damnit Dean…" And that's it. He pulls his shoulders back, chin up, and flashes Sam that arrogant smile he must have learned from his father. _Damnit John_. I love this young man in front of me, for all he's the biggest idjit I've ever met. Other'n his father, o'course. Flashing that cocky smart ass grin at me, he just walks casually into the crossroads, all but beckoning the hounds on him. They don't tear him up, nothing. One minute he's standing there, and the next he's gone. Nothing. Not even a shoe. Sometimes there's a shoe, like for some sort of dramatic flair, I guess. Hell, not even footprints. I leave enough in the loose gravel and dirt, Sammy, too. He was out of the car, and I had to hold him back, keep him from the spot. If he goes to it, I'll lose him just like we just lost Dean. I've lost enough. Sam, has, too. He doesn't need to lose himself.


	2. Chapter One: At a Crossroads

_(this one is short. It's already part of a 17 page fic. I'm on chapter 5. Because I'm going to be offline for a while, I figured I might as well share this with you guys. Get some more reviews for more ideas. I'm already incorporating some ideas shared into my story already. Requests, I guess. So I don't have too much POV changing. But I like to get into the character's heads. Chapter Two is gonna kill you guys, lots of tears. Um...other than that, thanks for reading!)_

**Chapter One: At a Crossroads**

"Sam?" Bobby asked quietly. "You alright there, son?"

"Yeah, I'm okay Bobby," he grinned weakly. "It's just hard, it's been a year. Dean'd be pissed, finally got a hunt taking us to Hollywood," he smiled for real, that time. "In fact, I'm pretty sure I saw Angelina Jolie," he chuckles. "Although, we were in Hollywood once. Did I ever tell you? Dean thought he saw Matt Damon," Sam rolled his eyes, then continued to stare at the crossroads. "I miss him," Sam said thickly.

"I know Sam. Just about everyone who knew him, or his father did. Even the ones John managed to have a falling out with." Hell, who hadn't John had a falling out with? "Your dad and your brother, they earned a lot of respect to the Winchester name, Sam, you too. You done good, and you done your daddy proud, and I see the Impala's well, so Dean's been done proud, too." The words sound awkward and forced coming from Bobby, almost like someone's forcing them into his mouth, except for the occasional phrase that just feels right. Sam's lips attempt to twitch up into a smile, but he fails. There's nothing happy about this moment. Dean was taken at 1:30 am. Glancing at his watch, it's only one right then.

"Shouldn't, shouldn't we do something for him? I know it's not like he'd want a headstone." Considering his reaction to their mother's, he'd be sure pissed if he had one of his own. "I feel like we should light candles, but could you imagine his face?" Tears run unabashed down Sam's cheeks. Dean's not there to make fun of him for crying.

"Something's wrong." Sam glanced up at Bobby's voice, and stares intently into the darkness, trying to find what was setting of Bobby's 'spider sense' where was Dean when you needed him? Right.

It hurts, standing here. Where Dean died. Thinking about him, it still feels like he was taken just yesterday. I still wake up expecting to hear him breathing softly, or to some obnoxious prank he's pulled that's unpleasant. For me at least. Or to him calling out in his sleep, or sometimes to him just slipping in as the sun's coming up, smelling of sex and beer. Or even him rolling out of bed and hitting the floor with that solid thud of flesh on carpet. It's wrong waking up without him. Standing here, I can understand how Dean felt. And I can't blame him…not anymore. If I had flowers… "I dunno Bobby. It seems quiet to me," I admit sheepishly. Like I'm missing something. It hurts waking up, hoping that this past year has been a dream. I don't know why I wanted to come. Dean. Dean I miss you. I know…I know where you are, but, I hope, I hope you can hear me. I do. Be strong Dean. I may not be able to bring you back, but I can still save you. I'm going to find a way to save your soul Dean. I won't let you become a demon, and I won't leave you in hell. I won't let your soul stay there. You don't belong there, okay Dean? I'm gonna save you. I promise. I walk over to the spot, pulling something from around my neck. It's a cross necklace. Something I've had for a long time, I don't even know how long anymore. I think it was mom's or something. Either way, I take it off, staring at the silver in the palm of my hand. Pulling gravel away from the ground, I dig a little deeper, and press the cross into the cold earth. This, this can mark my brother. Pushing the dirt and gravel back over it, I stand up, sniffing.

Sam rubbed at his jaw the same way Dean does, and Bobby finds a bitter smile twisting the corners of his mouth. It's not like he doesn't see anything. Settling his body against the hood of the Impala, he just watches, his heart aching. He has a bad feeling about the whole thing. The air seems charged. Glancing at his watch, Bobby sighed, two more minutes. Then they can just leave already.

"Sam, Sam, c'mere, com over here," Bobby suggests.

"Bobby, I'm sure it's fine," Sam's voice sounds tight, almost like he's choking on his words. Or trying not to cry. It's the same as when dad died, the tightness in his voice when he asked Dean if dad had said anything, his voice begging for comfort, and Dean gave him none. _"No, nothing."_ Sometimes Sam felt like that was his legacy, to be constantly left behind by those he loved. _People around me die_. _I only have to kill you if I can't save you, and I'm going to save you. _The younger Winchester wondered bitterly if Dean realized this existence was worse than death. Bobby glanced at his watch again, another minute to go. Softly counting the seconds, he doesn't even know he's doing it, and Sam finds himself gritting his teeth against the steady "50, 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60…" of Bobby's voice. The air goes silent, and Sam looked around, confused. It wasn't as though the night had been loud before, but there had been some crickets. Nighttime noises. Nothing. Then a shockwave that blew him back, ramming his back into the Impala, seeing Bobby tossed over the hood and out of view.

The clearing is silenced, except the soft sounds of fingernails scraping against dirt and rock, pushing gravel aside.


	3. Chapter Two: Then

_( I really do need reviews w/ideas, comments, emotional reactions, etc, because ...I've hit writer's block. I'm on chapter 6 (I might go and cut it roughly in half and make chapter 7) and I've run out of things to write. So if you want more, you're going to have to say something, or find friends to read this and review it._

_**Author's Note:**_

_Okay, so I mention "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Elliot. So, it's important because the poem opens with Dante's inferno, where a rough paraphrasing of the passage goes 'I know that no one has ever escaped hell, so I can share with you my deepest fears and secrets without worry, because not a single soul has ever left hell, so I am free of my own sins' kind of thing. Then the Prufrock poem is incredibly scattered, it's Modernism, and the death of man and how society corrupts and twists us all, destroying individualism, memories, and who we are in general (It's also the focus of "The Wasteland" written after Elliot had a massive nervous breakdown AFTER THE DEATH OF HIS FATHER.) So I felt it was fitting, and it was my inspiration for this. In fact the line "How shall I presume to spit out the dog ends of all my days and ways?" where Elliot is wondering how to get rid of all the horrible memories that are all he has left, as 'modern man'. And the poem, on a side note, is Prufrock's insecurities as he lists them and frets over them, losing his confidence as he loses himself, deciding his only option/salvation is death, as he tries to figure out how to get into a party where he doesn't belong, to the point he's a neurotic mess trapped in a hell of his own making. I thought it was highly appropriate.) _

**Chapter Two: Then**

**One Year Ago**

I grin cockily. It's the last thing I can do for my brother. Since I'm not going out fighting with him like I planned, I can sure as hell go out with a patent Winchester smile. I laugh in the face of death! Then I see them. The hounds. They're just staring at me, red-eyed. "Go ahead, you sons of bitches, take me." I can go out with a bang, if not with a fight! I won't go out like a coward. I can see the flames, feel the heat searing my skin, torture and pain envelop me, and I can't see my brother or Bobby anymore.

Fire. Oh god, the fire. It hurts. It hurts.

I can handle this. I can get through this.

Dad! Dad _please! _

It hurts so bad! Please…please make it stop. SAMMY!

_Help_ me!

It gets easier with time. Pain will fade.

I love you.

Please stop.

It hurts.

_Sammy,_ where are you?

Why'd you leave me?

I'm _worthless._

_What'm I supposed to do? _

_I let down everyone I care about._

Dad left me.

_I'll never be good enough. _

Come back to me.

Love me.

_I'm not worth loving. _

Pain.

_I deserve the pain. _

Come back to me!

_Everyone leaves me._

Sam left for college.

Me.

Who am I?

_Dean. I have to remember._ _Sammy, have to remember Sammy_, and Dad…Sammy?

Have to remember. Remember the name if nothing else. _What's in a name?_ Sam. Sammy. Bobby. Dad. Ellen. Jo. Ash.

It's my fault he's dead. Ash, Sammy.

_I died for you Sammy._

Hurts. Please, it hurts. Make it stop. I hurt. Oh, god it hurts. Prufrock.

_Oh god it's just like that damn poem I had to read. _Poems. Reading. When was I reading?

_I'd rather die._ I'm dying.

I can't shoot you. I'll save you.

Pain. Fire. My soul…it's being torn.

Who am I? Sam. Sammy? _Protect, protect Sammy_.

It hurts, why does it have to hurt? Please, make it stop. Oh god…there's no god, why does it hurt? Every inch of me…but…me? It's like, like I'm being pulled apart atom by atom, I don't have a confined space. Have to remember my body.

_Sammy?_

Hurts, please, please, make it stop, it hurts. Please. It hurts too much. It hurts worse than anything. Pain. All I can think about is pain.

_I died for you, Sammy._

God, why, why does it have to hurt? _It's like my nightmares, but so much worse!_ Augh please…please…please…

_Sammy? I don't remember…I don't remember._ Who's Sammy? Why'm I…

It hurts. That's all there is, pain. Maybe I can get used to it. Pain. Oh, please make it stop. Please. I'll scream. Please.

_Who's Sammy?_ Sam. Sam'n Dean. Dean…Dean means something. Please, tell me! Tell me!

Pride. _Pride before the fall._ Fell into hell.

Save _me!_

I have to get out. Out…out…out…it's a litany I repeat to myself, in hopes that pain won't strip even that away from me. I have to keep that. Out. Get out. I feel the flames building in my chest in a point of white heat, like a small sun, bound by a chain around my neck.

_It's my necklace. The one Sammy gave me._ But who's Sammy!?

Out. Out. Have to get out of here. I don't belong here.

Made a deal.

Deal with who?

Have to leave. Sammy? What's a Sammy?

What's my _name_?

Who...what am I?

Am I a _demon?_ God…

Sam.

Pain.

Sammy?

Out.

Please stop.

Fire.

Dad? Dad please. Help me?

Pain.

Escape.

Sam?

Pain. Please…make it stop, it hurts. My whole body, _no_, my whole being, _my whole existence_. I can't scream. I'll scream, just stop. Please stop hurting me.

Out. Out.

Out?

Have to get out of here.

Please, let me out.

How do I get out? I have to find the Sammy. I'm supposed…

Supposed to protect something.

Have to get out, I've left something. Neck burns.

The small sun, it's agony.

Ripped apart. Please. _Stop. _

I have to get _out! _


	4. Chapter Three: Now

_(I'm only updating this early, because quite frankly, Dean in hell...not the best place to leave things. And it was scattered. And it's almost a stand alone chapter. So, this also should give you a decent idea of where I'm going with this fic. Except a lot of tears moving on past chapter 4 I think. I've gotten some great reviews which are inspiring, so I've been adding a lot and editing what I already have. But I think my first four or five chapters are going to stay the same. So those will be updated... some time next week? Maybe. I'm thinking next Thursday I'll give you guys chapter Four. But, I need reviews- advice/suggestions/requests and permanent thanks to Merisha, my beta goddess. And to Onari, who has been very supportive and helpful in all her comments and messages, not to mention inspiring. _

_I'm taking a little bit off of writing, to tighten up the rest of the story, and to give my fingers a break, and really figure out where I'm going with this. So, I'm giving you guys this chapter, in hopes you'll see sort of where this is all headed. For the record, Dean will survive. No evil Winchesters. No Wincest, I hate it. Dean and Sam will be as okay as they ever were. I can't promise it'll happen soon, but by the end...we might get there. lol Enjoy. Reviews make me write. So, gimme advice and commentary.) _

**Chapter Three: Now**

Freedom? I'm going to get out.

Out of where?

Pain.

_Where am I?_

Push. It hurts my hands. Crawl forward. Push. It's dirt.

Dirt? Push. Scrapes my hands. Blood in the dirt. Worms. I'm buried.

Darkness gives way to the crossroads lit up by the moon. Looking around blearily as my mind catches up with the events, I look and see a pale shape in the center of the crossroads.

It's Dean! My heart leaps in my chest. We never found his body. Nothing to salt and burn, not like dad. My throat tightens. Oh god it's all my fault. It just gave us his body. I pull myself off of the hood of the Impala, groaning in pain, my poor back. "Bobby?! Bobby?" Where was he? He was already on the hood, and then when the blast hit, he was tossed out of sight, thrown right up the hood and over the roof. I'm torn. Dean. Bobby. Dean's dead. But he's in the middle of a crossroads. A car…what if a car comes? "BOBBY!?"

"I'm fine, what the hell happened?"

"Bobby!" I hear my own voice catch, and I can feel the blush rising to my cheeks. How stupid! It's Dean. God he's pale. Well, he's dead. But more importantly, his clothes? I might as well find something to cover him with. A shroud…my throat tightens. Don't leave me again, please Dean. This is a sick joke. I've got your body, and I promised not to bring your soul back…please Dean…come back to me. Running around to the back of the Impala, I help Bobby up, "Help me," I moan, opening the trunk and pulling out a coarse grey blanket. Not my first choice for my brother. Well, he's not my brother. It…it's just a corpse, that's all.

Sam's a mess. I don't know what's wrong. "Sam, talk to me."

"It's Dean," he moans, and his voice just about breaks my heart. Helping him, he starts tugging on a blanket, hooked onto something in the trunk, freeing it, he jerks it away, running without even bothering to close the trunk.

"Sam? Damnit Sam!" I shout, closing the trunk and shooting after him, after grabbing the keys from the lock. Not a good idea to leave them there. "Oh god," I find myself saying in a hoarse whisper. Dean. Oh god. Sam's trying to lift him off the gravel. He's so pale. Then Sam turns his face up to me, tears running down his cheeks, but his eyes are triumphant.

"He's breathing Bobby, oh god he's breathing!" I can hear the relief, hell I could cut it with a knife it's so strong in his voice.

"Damnit Sam," I find myself saying, for all I don't mean it. Rushing towards them, I drop to my knees on the gravel, carefully lifting up Dean's stilled form. "You can't be sure this is Dean," I tell him, looking at the man in my arms. His lips are bluish with cold, his body shivering and covered with goose bumps. He's covered in dirt and mud mixed in with what's clearly his own blood. Blood from his nose drips down his upper lip and joins with the blood at the corner of his mouth, mixing into the dirt encrusted on his face. It's Dean's necklace, and it looks like Dean. Under all the dirt, at least. But I won't make any promises or get my hopes up. The freckles that dust his cheeks and the top of his nose stand out against the whiteness of his skin beneath the moonlight, his dark eyelashes casting sharp shadows over his cheeks. Touching his face I notice the gauntness of it, and how the shadows being cast throw his face into sharp relief, creating an almost sepulchral effect. I hold one of his hands in mine, it's bloody, scraped to the bone in some places. Like he crawled his way through up through the earth. Digging his way out of his own grave. I touch his knuckles sympathetically, I can see bone poking through with the blood flowing freely. Got to stop that soon. Both hands. Nails are missing where he scraped them off, pulling dirt and rock aside, dragging his body to the air and sky. That's going to hurt. We'll need to bandage and clean everything before he wakes up. Although I can only think of hosing him off, and there's no way he'd stay unconscious through that.

Damnit. I'm already thinking of this as Dean. It can't be. I've heard of the ole Winchester luck. It won't be Dean. Nothing ever works out right.

Heaving Dean's body off the ground, I won't admit it's the man inside there until I have proof of it, Sam slides the blanket underneath him, trying to brush gravel from his back and legs. Each movement Sam makes is jerky and awkward, "You hold the blanket Sam, I'll get the gravel off." My hands are defter, less frantic. I'm not letting myself hope. Damnit Dean. Don't you dare get my hopes up. Don't you dare. The man in my arms doesn't stir. Nothing. Between the two of us we lift Dean up using the corners of the blanket like a stretcher. Sliding him into the Impala's back seats, I carefully bundle and tuck the blanket around his ice cold body. You'd think that hell would be hot. Then again maybe the temperature difference is causing this.

"Sam, you drive to my place, go fast, you understand me, but don't try to move him." I'm already going to the trunk and pulling rope from it, binding Dean's hands together, and then his legs.

"Bobby, what the hell are you doing? That's my brother! That's Dean!"

"No Sam, we don't know that. Not for sure. I don't want you dead, and a demon wearing Dean's face running around. Do you understand me?" Sam puffs his chest up to argue with me, I know. I see the set of his jaw, and I tighten my own. "Do you understand me?" I snap, deepening my voice and doing my best John imitation. Sam backs down.

"Yessir."

"Sam, don't 'yessir' me. Just get your…get Dean to my place. We'll see if he's a demon soon enough," I tell him, trying to keep my voice from sounding like a threat. I don't want to hurt Dean, I'm not going to. However, we can clean his hands up with holy water, and if he reacts, he's a demon. And…we'll just have to say goodbye all over again. Don't be a demon Dean, please don't.

My heart's hammering in my chest. It's Dean. Oh thank god I've got my brother back. Then Bobby's words freeze my heart, and I realize that all things that come out of hell are demons. But what if Dean's like Ruby? I don't want him to be like Ruby, cold and unfeeling. Even if he would be stronger and faster…and on our side. Please Dean. Be my brother. Be my big brother. I love you. I'll save you. I'll find a way.

Sliding into the Impala, I floor it, knowing Dean would kill me, and it sends a small thrill through me, speeding up my heart. He might be around to yell at me. Help me with the car. Hunt with me. I might have my brother back. Bobby too. Dean. I need you. This hole in my chest, it's eating away at me. It's killing me, Dean. Please. Please come back to me.

Sam pulled into the drive way at Bobby's house, Bobby not too far behind. Opening the backseat doors of the Impala, Sam leaned over Dean carefully, lightly stroking his hair just once, releasing a cloud of dust and dirt that made him cough and then sneeze. Hoping Dean doesn't cough or choke on the dirt and dust, Sam almost dances with his impatience as he shifts his weight from foot to foot, waiting on Bobby. The gravel crunches under the tires of the battered old Ford as Bobby pulls up alongside the Impala, hopping out of the car almost the moment it stops moving, crunching it's way to a halt. "Here, I'll stay by his head, you get his legs." Sam opens his mouth to argue, but takes one look at Bobby and shuts his mouth again. Letting Bobby move to his brother's head and shoulders, he realizes Bobby knows what he's doing as the older man carefully begins easing Dean up and out of the car, Sam moving instantly to take hold of the blanket and support Dean's weight.

"Sam?"

"Yeah Bobby?" Sam's breathing is hoarse and shaky, not to mention his voice. It sounds like he hasn't spoken in years.

"When we get to the door, you open it, understand? You can hold the blanket with one hand for a few minutes, I think," Bobby says, his voice almost turning the comment into a jibe. It's not entirely intentional, but it's enough to make sure Sam will hold Dean's legs up and not complain. The keys are shifted carefully to Sam's hands, and he gets the door open, shouldering it wide enough to get through, and Bobby uses his foot to close it again, knowing he needs to remember to lay salt lines and lock the door. And settle Dean into a devil's trap. Solomon's Gate. Getting Dean into the room previously wrecked by a possessed Sam, it's been repaired, and the Gate has been repainted clearly and neatly. Settling Dean underneath it on top of a blanket that loosely covered him from the waist down a well, and a section of his chest in a diagonal from shoulder to hip, Bobby went for the holy water along with disinfectant, antibiotics, and the rest of his med kit.

I pull Dean fully into my arms as I carry him into the room where Meg was exorcised not that long ago. At least it doesn't seem like it, but it's been over two years, hasn't it? Oh my god, it's been so long. Without Dean there's no such thing as time, and with him, time flies anyway. Usually it's because I'm so worried about him there's never any time for anything else, but still. He doesn't stir other than to toss his head a few times, almost like he's dreaming. But he's so still, barely breathing. And the dirt…Tucking the blanket more firmly around him, I settle him on the floor, leaned up against my chest. God he's freezing. Wrapping my arms around him, I shout "Bobby? Hurry up!" My brother's shaking so bad. I try rubbing at his arms, back, and chest to heat him up some. "C'mon Dean, c'mon. You can do it," I tell him, at least I think I'm talking to him, and not trying to comfort myself. Maybe it's just both. C'mon Dean, please. Don't leave me alone again. Please don't. I can't take it if you do. I barely survived last time.

After the next morning, I had a horrible hang over. Bobby and I go so drunk. So damn drunk. I don't know how many bottles of beer, whine, and whiskey we went through, but we were both so far gone. Probably lucky we didn't die of alcohol poisoning. I barely survived that morning, and it wasn't the hangover's fault! It hurt, and I kept thinking I'd see you. I'd wake up and expect you there, telling me to eat a greasy burger served in a dirty ash tray. But you were gone. "Don't leave me again," I whisper, not really aware that I've even said it out loud. Bobby comes back in, holy water in hand, along with a plastic storage tub full of steaming warm water and a rosary. Just in case, I guess. Please Dean, don't be a demon. Please have come home to us. Bobby pulls Dean's hands free of the blanket, I initially bristle, before realizing how gentle Bobby is with my brother.

"How're his hands?" I ask hoarsely.

"I don't know yet, I haven't had a chance to clean them," Bobby snips irritably at me.

"Sorry," I mumble, watching him carefully wash my brother's hands in the holy water, watching as blood spirals and trails with the dirt in the water, slowly settling to the bottom along with mixing in and turning the water a reddish brown color within seconds.

"Damnit Dean," Bobby swears, again, before getting up, giving up on my brother's hands for a few minutes, before carrying the dirty water, I hear the door creak open, the unmistakable sound of water hitting the ground, and then the sink running as Bobby refilled the tub. We had to get Dean's hands clean. Bobby returns again, rinsing my brother's bloodied hands. Soon enough we're sure all the dirt's gone, but just in case…betadine. Rubbing Dean's hands carefully, he coats them with the yellow substance.

"What…what happened to his hands?" My throat tightens because I already know the answer. I just need to hear it for sure. Carefully taking one of Dean's hands in my own, and so cautious to not dislodge him from his position against my chest I rub the betadine into his hand carefully, knowing that one we work up a lather, we've got three minutes before we can rinse it off. Unless we want to risk my brother never being able to use his hands again. If an infection sets in…god, please no. Not that too, on top of everything else. As Bobby moves around, getting fresh warm water his body casts shadows across Dean's face, making his face almost flicker. I see an emaciated bruised and cut spot on his cheek, see it spread across his face, and Bobby moves, his shadow no longer covering Dean, and he just looks exceptionally pale and a little gaunter than I'd like. But it'll be okay. Dean has to be okay. He has to be. "He just has to be okay."

Sam's first question makes me pause, feeling slightly sick. "Looks like he was doing some digging," is all I can reply, knowing that I'll lose my lunch –and dinner, if I do.

Hearing Sam say that breaks my heart a little. "He'll be fine, Sam. If it's really Dean under all that…" Dean'll be okay Sam, don't worry. His hands though, those are a mess. Looks like he broke some fingers, too. Different knuckles, different hands. Just like he's still got about three nails altogether left on his hands. It's going to hurt for a while. Especially with the cleaning, then the antibiotics and everything I'm going to slather on so I don't have to see Dean missing fingers like some woodshop teacher. I'd rather hurt him now and prevent a devastating infection. Hunters need all their fingers, especially their trigger fingers. Picking up a cleaner washcloth, I get it wet in the water and start cleaning the dirt and blood off Dean's face. I feel like gagging, seeing as how it's turned to mud from the red fluid on his face that continues to ooze from his nose and lips. I might as well start with his forehead and work my way down to the worst of it, or else the water'll be ruined for the rest of him. If I thought he was pale before, seeing him in the light and getting the layer of dirt off…the boy's almost translucent. And blue around the mouth, under everything. He has his mother's eyebrows, I can tell, having seen pictures. And they're nothing like John's or even Sam's. Too arched and soft, really. I should tell Dean that he would look pretty damn fine in drag, no one'd know if he just shaved with a straight razor instead of an electric one. With eyelashes that long, and a little make up…he'd make a lot of money. And all those freckles, they show up so darkly against his skin once I've cleaned it off, having had to rinse the washcloth at least twice, and I'm still on the upper half of his face.

Once I get to his nose I'm careful not to jar it, in case it's broken. "Here, Sam, you hold this to his nose to stop the bleeding," I tell the younger boy as I stand up, going to dump the water again. Returning, I've got several washcloths. I don't use them that often, a towel's just fine for me, and it's not like I have company often. Dampening a new cloth, I carefully clean off Dean's neck and jaw, wiping blood away. Lacerations cover his body where he forced it past rock and dirt, some cuts are pretty much just scrapes, others are definitely wounds that are going to require bandaging. "I'm going as fast as I can, okay, Dean?" I say out loud, more for Sam than anyone else. I see Sam nod, and hide a smile. Sam carefully pulls the washcloth away from Dean's nose, and I'm sure we're both pleased to note the bleeding's stopped. At least we both exhale at the same time, low and long. "He'll be fine," I repeat, again I'm not sure who I'm talking to. Rubbing at Dean's chin gently, I can see the cleft he's inherited from his father, Sam has it, too. Got his father's jaw, good and strong. Wondering about the bleeding coming from Dean's mouth, panic grips me.

"Please have all your teeth," I half moan, forgetting about Sam for a minute, as I carefully work Dean's jaw open, checking. It looks fine. His mouth is dirty, probably choked on the stuff he was trying to crawl through and passed out. "Sam, here lean him on me, and go get some water. We'll…" Then I look at the holy water on hand, and lift it to Dean's lips, slowly pouring minute amounts in, wishing he was conscious so he could spit. But since there's no reaction to the holy water, I relax. Between the two of us, we lay Dean down, figuring we can clean him up faster, hopefully before he wakes up. Considering we don't know what he's going to be like. Sam's sure as hell determined Dean's just going to be fine, if a little pissed at the fact he's only wearing a necklace. I'm not so sure. John was messed up when Mary died, Dean wouldn't speak, and Dean's been to hell, for a year. I don't exactly think he's going to be the same. But he's not a demon. Given he can move out of the devil's trap without so much as a twitch. I'm tempted to read an exorcism over him, just in case something latched on, but all indications say that he's free. He's Dean. If hell hasn't broken him completely….


	5. Chapter Four: Warmth

**Chapter Four: Warmth **

_I'll save you_.

After the three minute period I'm rinsing the betadine from Dean's hands and fingers, cautious of hurting him. His hands clench and tighten a few times, the tendons on the back of his hands standing out sharply against his pale skin, and I'm so worried he's going to wake up.

"Sam, don't move," Bobby tells me, his voice low.

"What?" I'm so confused.

"He's awake." My heart skips several beats.

"What..what'd I do?" I can hear panic and I don't know why. Because we don't know if it's Dean.

_Who's gonna save me? _

"Just keep washing his hands, and slather the antibiotics all over, then start wrapping them. Regardless, we don't want all that hard work going for nothing," Bobby says calmly. I feel myself relax. Considering Dean's not moving. I risk a glance at his face. He's just watching us. Nothing really registering. I shudder, it's like…like he's just dead.

_Hurts. Still hurts. Please…I'm so cold…make it stop. _

"Hey Dean, how're you doing?" My voice is so hoarse. "Just cleaning up your hands. You did a number on 'em, you idiot," I tell him. Just keep talking Sam. His eyes don't even move towards me. Nothing, no sign he's heard me, he doesn't even blink. One eye looks a little swollen, like he can't quite open it all the way, the other's all red, bloodied almost.

"Bobby, can he even see?"

"His pupils are reacting just fine Sam, it's fine. Your brother was in hell, you idjit, you think he's just gonna wake up and be your brother again? Gawwd Sam, be happy he's alive and not freaking out on us right now." Bobby tries to get Dean to drink something while I'm bandaging his hands. Dean just spits it out, then again, the water's brown with his blood and dirt. Not like he was eating it, but he was buried alive. It happens. I've fallen and ended up with dirt and grass in my mouth. Smooth, according to Dean. Real smooth.

_Cold. Where …where am I? _

Bobby keeps Dean busy with the water, glad he's at least reacting like that. His hands are bandaged, the white against his skin looking so…wrong. To me. His skin's not dark enough. He's too pale, every single freckle and scar stands out brilliantly against the whiteness of my brother's flesh. He's still shivering, skin still raised in goose bumps, and it's everything Bobby and I can do to try and crowd him and clean him up while trying to keep him warm. I watch Bobby set up a fire, feeding extra logs on to heighten the blaze in hopes of heating Dean's chilled skin. I find myself rubbing at his arms and back, trying to keep him to me, share my body heat with him. He's so dirty. His eyes…Bobby was trying to clean his face, but he looks horrible. Bobby hasn't stopped wiping mud and dirt off his face and neck, trying to get to his chest and back.

"Bobby!" I cry out feeling Dean's muscles tense as he jerks away from us, away from the fire.

"Damnit!" Bobby shouts, making Dean flinch. He's standing, shakily, but he's standing. The blanket's barely hanging onto his shoulders, and it's not like he's trying to hold on at all.

_Fire. Not again. Please…please don't. I'll scream. Just stop. I'm needed. _

Dean's body. I see Bobby blanch. God what'd they do to him? Then the light of the fire flickers across his skin, and he's whole again. I feel my stomach heave, but I control the urge to vomit. Dean. Oh god. I'm so sorry Dean. I'm so sorry. It looked like pieces of flesh were missing, in other places he was flayed to the bone. But, it's nothing. It's gone. He's human. He walked out of the trap. God. Please Dean. My throat tightens.

_I'm not needed. I'm worthless. Left behind. I wasn't wanted._

Streaks of blood drip down his body, some mixing with the dirt we weren't able to even get to, others stand out brightly against the white of his skin. I look at him, "Dean!" Lunging to my feet, I barely manage to catch him as his eyes roll up into his head and he crumples.

_Please. No_.

Sam barely manages to catch Dean, and I'm up on my feet, not a minute behind helping Sam hold into his brother. Lowering him to the ground, "Sam, we gotta clean him up and get him warm," not that it isn't obvious. C'mon son, pull through. You're a fighter Dean, so fight damn it! Between the two of us we manage to get his upper body cleaned off pretty well, along with cleaning up the abrasions and cuts. I find myself tugging rocks out of some cuts, causing blood to hit me across the face in a warm spray. Sam's hand's there with a cloth, pressing hard to stop the bleeding, before I even have time to think. My hands are already moving, the wound was clean other than the rock, the needle's already threaded, and I've got stuff to clean the wound quickly then bind it, working in perfect synch with Sam, he pulls his hand away, and I'm already cleaning and then stitching the hole in Dean's chest. Sam's already moved on to some of the scrapes, just cleaning them, doing what he can for the worst ones, Sam can't stitch up the wounds himself.

_It hurts. Kill me. _

"Sam, how bad're his legs?"

"There's a gash in his thigh, and a deep one on the inside of his calf that I can see, but there's so much dirt packed in…" his voice is hopeless.

"Go get clean water," he doesn't move. "Now!" Startled into action, Sam picks it up while I keep stitching, carefully snipping off the thread and applying gauze and tape to stitches so Dean can't get to them. And in case blood leaks past. Dean's still shivering. "Damnit boy, warm up," I snap, rubbing at his arms and back in an attempt to heat him up. "Sam, you bring that water back hot!" I shout, not that it wasn't warm before. Laying Dean down on the blanket, I'm working with a particularly nasty gash in his belly, a few inches up and to the left of his navel. More on his hips, I suppose. It's a bloody dirty mess, and I'm doing my best.

"Bobby, what …?"

"Sam," his voice is so helpless. "You keep warm cloths on his head and neck. See if you can find a shirt of his, a thick one and an undershirt. Once we finish up his stomach and back we can probably get something on him. It might help. Hell, why don't you put the clothes near the fire so they'll heat up?" I suggest, hoping that it'll work.

_Save me. _

Sam disappears again while I disinfect the wound. Stitching this one up, the process becomes monotonous, it's hard to shift Dean onto his back, so I settle for resting him across my lap, so his face isn't pushed into the floor. He's just like a rag doll. There's a horrible slash…it doesn't look like he did this to himself crawling out. But there's no way…it's jagged and deep, down at the bottom of his left shoulder blade, crossing over his back to his right hip and a little below. It needs to be stitched up. I don't find any rocks, and I'm doing my best, for once not worrying if I hurt him. A little pain now to save him from a lifetime of it. I miss a single rock…I shudder. Pressing at the gagged lips of the wound, I don't feel anything. "Okay Dean, we'll get this one, then we can put a shirt on you, okay? You'll be fine. Even if you are a total idjit like your father and brother," I mutter. Damnit John. He wouldn't be in this mess if it wasn't for you.

_Mom?_

Stitching up the wound quickly, it gets easier with time. Every time I do it, it goes faster. Every single time. With Dean looks like I'm going to have good practice. And I'm going to know almost every single inch of his body. Then again I've changed Sam's diapers. I suppose I'd rather be Sam than Dean, given the choice.

"C'mon Sam, help me get a shirt on him," I say, trying to keep my voice comforting. Between the two of us we get a white tank top on him, it's heated from the fire, and he twitches at its touch on his skin. Next a black t-shirt that's also heated. Then we're easing an actual long sleeved Henley over his head and working his arms into the sleeves, before Sam's pulling Dean's arms through a button up flannel shirt probably one of his, considering it falls over Dean's hands.

"To keep his hands warm…keep him warmer in general," Sam admits with a slight flush. It is his. The one he was wearing, I realize. Sam. Rubbing at my eyes a little, I smear Dean's blood across my face. I'd forgotten. "Sam, hand me a washcloth," he does and I wipe my face clean with a slight shudder of disgust. "Think it's a little overkill Sammy?" I ask, using Dean's pet name for his brother. Other than bitch.

"He…he looks so cold."

_Please. I can't remember. It's so dark. Please. _

My heart breaks worse every time I look at my brother. I carefully button up my shirt, knowing if I button the top buttons on the Henley Dean'll get uncomfortable. He hates it when the buttons are up, says it makes him feel like he can't breathe. It's part of why he hates ties. Dean just hates anything around his neck. I know it's because of a hunt we were one once. It was a spirit. Or something. I don't remember very well, in fact I don't remember any of it other than Dad carrying Dean into the motel in his arms, Dean making these weird sounds. Dad was yelling at me to get water and the med kit, and I got a glimpse of Dean's neck…completely lacerated like he'd been hung. Now he can barely handle anything being around his neck. Dad made me stay in the bathroom while he bandaged Dean's neck up and dosed him with morphine so he'd sleep. He couldn't speak for days. I had to watch over Dean, for once. Make sure he had water, and pain killers. Soup, too. I had to make soup for him. Soup!

"Bobby, do you have any soup?" I can hear the excitement in my voice. Dean's so thin. His clothes don't fit him. At one time his shirts were all snug against his chest, he does it on purpose in case he sees a girl. It's so there're no surprises about how ripped he is. Rolling my eyes out of habit, I meet Bobby's eyes.

"Yeah, go find the pantry. It's that dried stuff, I hate those fake chicken chunks," Bobby says, half growling, more like normal. It feels more like normal. I leave the room, leaving Bobby to tend Dean, ignoring the occasional cries of "shit!" and "god damn it Dean" or sometimes it's Dad Bobby curses. It just changes depending on whatever he's seeing.

_What's my name? Don't I have a name?! What am I?!_

I've already laid out Dean's boxers, some of the tighter underclothes we wear on cold winter mountain hunts. Like typical thermal underwear, but it's that weird, it's like under-armor or whatever. But, for the cold. It's there with some sweats lying out, too. Also mine, but Dean doesn't have any, and there's no way his jeans are going to fit over the thermals comfortably so he can sleep. And his jeans…so many holes. I'm so glad I never threw out his clothing. For one thing, he would have killed me, and it's sure coming in handy now.

Bringing the soup over, I've got three bowls. Bobby looks up at me, disgruntled. "We all need to eat," I remind him.

"Lemme finish up this bad one," Bobby comments, working with a gash from a little above halfway down Dean's thigh to his knee, on the inside. Man he's gonna be pissed when he wakes up. I calmly start eating, then realize the soup's hot.

"Oww!" Bobby looks up at me. "Hot hot hot!" I manage to choke out, and he chuckles, shaking his head, his fingers never missing a stitch. It's hard to eat with Bobby stitching up my brother. But I know if I pass out it's not going to Dean any good. I've gotten better at taking care of myself without him around to chide me. Then again passing out because I keep forgetting to eat was a pretty decent lesson, if an unpleasant one. But Dean won't have to worry so much. We can just relax for a while. Lightly patting Dean's knee, Bobby carefully lays him out on the blanket, pulling it up over his waist to keep his legs warm. And to well, protect his modesty, I guess. We'll get his pants on as soon as we eat, and Bobby checks him over for any other injuries.

Blowing on his soup, Bobby eyes me, eyes shining in amusement.

_I'm…I'm supposed to…I don't know! I can't remember! _

Once Sam's done, he gets up and walks over to Dean, lifting his brother's head up and sheltering him against his chest. Dean's head rests lightly against Sam's collar bone, give or take, and his shoulder leans into his brother's chest. Carefully adjusting himself, Sam is able to pick up the bowl and settle it into his lap, lifting spoonfuls of soup to his brother's mouth, carefully blowing on them, testing it lightly against his own lips –rather than burn Dean's mouth like he burned his own. Idjit, I swear it's a wonder they haven't died yet…well, from something more stupid. And less intentional. It's kind of sweet in a way, watching how careful Sam is to pour the warm liquid and thin noodles into Dean's mouth, sometimes lightly stroking his throat to get him to swallow, other times Dean does just fine on his own. I can't see Dean's face, his back is to me, but I can see Sam's arm moving.

"How's he doing?"

"He's eating." And for now, that's enough. Finishing my own bowl, Sam and I are gonna need more sustenance than that. I don't have a lot; basically I have some bread and cheese. Mouse food. Damn it. Damnit Bobby. Well now I know what I'm doing as soon as we have Dean settled. Heating up some bread, I can make grilled cheese sandwiches. It'll take a few minutes for the bread to toast. So I guess they're not really grilled. Bite me.

_Help me. I can't…I'm lost…_

"You get all that in him?" I ask, there's more soup in the pot. Coming over, I check his legs for other deep cuts, deciding that the few scrapes I haven't doctored are fine, and that one or two still need bandaging, but not stitches. They're scrapes where his skin looks like raw meat, and I can't stitch that better. Sam gets up to get his pants. We slip on Dean's clothes, me lifting his hips up off the ground so Sam can get the boxers up to his slender hips at least. They don't really fit anymore. Biting my lip, I rub at my eyes again. Dean. Gawd boys. I lightly smooth out Dean's forehead, considering the frown. We haven't even bothered to clean his hair. There's almost nothing we can do. Well we could try to clean his hair up like how they do at the barber's. That might work. It can't feel good. And the pillows…I hate doing laundry. God the boy's lost weight, though. Not like Dean was ever a fat ass, but he had more muscle.

"Sam, he's fine. We'll feed him up like a Christmas turkey, he'll be fine." Sam nods, as we work the tighter winter thermals up his legs avoiding tugging on the stitches, easing them past his hips. Then the sweats. "These aren't Dean's," my voice is almost accusatory. Sam chuckles.

"All he's got is jeans with holes, and he can't sleep in those. Especially not with the thermals under 'em," he points out with a shrug. I chuckle in turn. The sweats are too long, and Sam's got wider hips than Dean anyway –his bones, he's taller, so his bones are bigger, too, and the cuffs of the sweats go past Dean's ankles, all but covering his feet.

"What, none of those super furry socks? Sam you're just like an old housewife," I tease him. "Here, you keep his shoulders up," I tell the boy, moving the bucket of water –still warm, I note, under Dean's head, carefully splashing the water into his hair, trying not to make a face when grey road dust lifts up, along with the mud, his hair starts to turn a whole other color. Lighter, for one thing. And a lot less grey hair, and here I was getting worried. Then again, we'd be able to commiserate a little. Grey hair, well it's a bitch. But at least you get the senior citizen's discount. Not that Dean'd be fooling anyone. Boy has a baby face anyway, just like his brother. Well, Sam definitely has a more boyish face than Dean, but he's also four years younger. Time'll tell which one ages better. John aged well enough. His boys have hope. The heat can't be bad for Dean, and his hair's cleaned up as best I can without him doing it himself or some sort of better way. And I don't plan on sitting him in a bathtub and doing it that way, although when he was little, and Sam too, I have. But Dean's 28 now and he's sure as hell too big to fit properly anyway.

"He's gonna be okay right? Now that we've got him warm?"

"So long as he doesn't get a fever," I caution Sam, not wanting to crush his hopes, but I don't want him to have unrealistic expectations. I don't even dare hope Dean lives out the night. He might have come back to us just to die. But we can keep him comfortable. Drying Dean's hair off, I'm gentle, and pleased that the towel doesn't come away dirty. We've done a good job. "Sam he's weak. Hell, he's not…Sam, don't…don't get your hopes up." I feel like when Dean brought me a baby bird that fell out of the nest. He was probably six or seven, Sammy trailing behind him, both of them were sniffling and teary eyed. Sam had a decent hold on the tail of Dean's shirt.

"_Uncle Bobby! Uncle Bobby! Look, we found him, he's hurt! We gotta save him!" Dean's voice cracked. _

"_Dean, son, sometimes when a Momma Bird knocks a baby out of the nest it's because the baby isn't going to survive." I was trying to be gentle. The kid was pretty high strung, always freaking out about protecting just about everything. Sometimes I'd worry he's gonna freak if I try and mow the lawn. Might hurt the grass. Jesus, John. _

"_No, we have to save him!" Then the water works started. _

"_Okay, we'll try," I told him, patting shoulder gently. Picking Dean up, and settling him on one hip, I settled Sam onto the other. Dean still was holding the baby bird cupped in his little hands. We did our best to keep it alive, Dean and Sam both fell asleep right by the little nest we made it, but it was dead before they woke up. Sam bawled, Dean tried to hide his tears. We buried the baby bird in the back of my junk yard; a little rock Sam painted a 'bird' on marking the grave. Rain's probably washed the paint off, but, the rock's still there. _

I've seen Dean go out back, probably to stare at that rock. Remember how fragile life is. I just hope Sam realizes the lesson Dean learned that day. It's a bitter pill that's hard to swallow, but…it's just a part of life.

_I'm…warm…? _

I lift my brother up, one arm under his knees, the other around his shoulder, trying to keep his head from flopping back. Standing, I lift with my legs, not my back. God knows I've seen Dad hurt himself doing it, Dean too, once. Just once. He's so much lighter than I remember. I mean we tussle sometimes. More notably when we fought the trickster the first time, and I can promise Dean's heavy, muscle weighs more than fat. But he's so much lighter. It's like holding a shadow. The thought clenches my heart.

"Don't …it'll be okay Dean. Just hang on. Please don't leave me." I sniff, brushing my face against my shoulder, carrying Dean to an empty bedroom and carefully settling him on the bed, pulling the blankets up. I don't want him overheating, but he's still cold. I've got the thermometer from the first aid kit, the ear one. I don't want to try and get it in the right place in Dean's mouth, and he just had hot soup. So it won't be right. No matter what. His temperature reads at 96.4 degrees Fahrenheit. But it should go up, I just don't want him with a fever. Dean…please don't leave me.


	6. Chapter Five: Awakening

_**(A/N:** I'm trying to get the stupid spacing to work right. So far it isn't. Bear with me, I'm trying very hard. Because without the right spacing, yes, the POV changes are really hard to follow. Also, loving the reviews, I'm working my way through chapter nine as we speak, but some amazing reviews spurred me to go back and edit and do some things I wanted to earlier, and didn't.)_

**Chapter Five: Awakening **

I walk in, wondering where the hell Sam went. He's pulled up a chair to Dean's bed, his hands clasped gently over Dean's bandaged one, flopped forward onto the bed, clearly out cold.

"Sam, c'mon wake up…let's get you into a bed," I tell the dazed Winchester, pulling him out of the room with the reassurance, "If he wakes up I'll get you, I promise." He nods wearily, slipping his belt off and sinking into the other bed. He's out before he can even pull up the covers, and so I tug 'em up. I don't really tuck him in, but I do make sure they're up over his shoulders, and set out another blanket at the foot of the bed in case he gets cold. These boys…they're like my own flesh and blood, and I'd die for them. Taking care of them, it's nothing.

I hear a muffled "thanks Bobby…for everything," from Sam, and I smile.

"It's nothing Sam. You remember that. It's nothing," I tell him, lightly ruffling his hair, I have no idea if he heard or not, he's so tired. Probably already asleep. I'll wait in Dean's room in case he wakes up.

Sitting there by Dean's bedside, I take his temperature, seeing as how Sam's left it there anyway. Probably a hint. 98.6, just like it should be. Good. He's doing fine. Smoothing the creases from his forehead, I lightly run my hand over his soft bristly hair. "Dean…" my voice chokes up. Don't die on me kid, okay? Stay with me. Stay for Sam, okay Dean? We need you.

_I'm running. My heart's thudding in my chest. I missed the bus, and my backpack's thudding hard into my shoulders with every step I take. I'm scared, but I don't remember why. I just jerk the strap across my chest tighter, then when it's still bouncing I grab the part of it near my hip and tug it down, holding it tight against my back while my right arm keeps pumping as I run. I've gotta get home. Wherever home is. I don't remember. It hurts so bad, I was hanging around the school, dropped into German club to see a girl. Got stuck folk dancing with a group. I was the best lookin' guy there. But I don't even remember what I look like. I don't even remember my name. I remember eating some bread and cheese, kase und brot. I remember that. Apple juice, too. Apfel…I don't remember juice. I don't know who I am. Or why I'm running. Or what I'm afraid of. Something to do with being in trouble. Am I being chased? Or was I supposed to be somewhere. Who am I? My heart's bursting, and I can barely breathe. The air's so cold, it hurts to breathe. It hurts so bad, my throat aches from inhaling the icy air…the hail freezes my hands into fists. It hurts. But…why? Why am I running?_

I'm starting to doze off when I see the Dean's dark eyelashes part, revealing his emerald green eyes slowly like water filling a glass.

"Dean, thank god, son," I'm on my feet, smacking the wall with the flat of my hand, "Sam wake up! Dean's up, wake up!" I hear a muffled shout and a thud as Sam hits the ground running. Or at least I'm sure he's trying to, if he doesn't quite make it. I move back towards Dean, who flinches away, sitting up and pulling away to the point he disappears from view with a thud as he hits the ground, having crawled his way right off the bed. With a groan, I push my palm against my forehead, begging whatever god's listening for patience.

"Where…where's Dean?" Sam's voice is all panicky and higher than usual, to boot.

"He just fell outta the bed, the idjit's fine," I tell Sam. "Breathe. His temperature's normal, he's just…" I don't know what he's just. Just a tortured soul? Assuming he still has one…It's hard not to think that, but the moment I do I feel my eyes well with tears. Get a grip Bobby, you're too old for this. Sam and I move to the other side of the bed, and Dean cringes away from us both, I can see stark fear in his eyes, but behind that, there's nothing. No driving intelligence, there's nothing that says 'Dean' to me. None of that false courage I'm so used to seeing in his eyes, no matter how terrified he is. And that boy's scared a lot more than he'd ever admit. Usually for Sam. But this time, he's afraid of us.

"Dean…" Sam crouches down to make himself less threatening. He's tall enough to be scary. Dean calls him Sasquatch, after all. Then again with Sam's baby face and those big brown 'doe eyes' I'm surprised anything's afraid of him. Sam reaches out for his brother, who flinches pulling his legs closer to his chest, not in the fetal position by any means, but his knees are drawn up to his chest, hands flat on the floor ready to push his body up. "Dean, please…it's me…" Sam swallows hard, "It's Sam, Dean. It's Sammy." I can hear Sam's heart break in his voice.

"Dean…" his eyes flick right to me, then back to Sam, who's closer. Lips pulled back in a grimace, it's obvious he's not going to relax any time soon. But when Dean doesn't move to get away, Sam inches the slightest bit closer, hand still held out for Dean's. "Sam, be careful. He's not thinking, he might hurt you," I've seen how caged animals are, and I've seen wounded ones. Dean's acting like a wounded and caged animal right now.

--

"He won't hurt me, Bobby. He's my brother," Sam's voice sounds choked. This time it's my heart that's breaking along with Sam's voice.

"Damnit boys." My old heart can't take much more of this. Sam's just inching towards Dean. Nice and easy. Least he's being smart about his stupidity.

Dean…god please don't look at me like that. No matter what happens, I know that moment's burned on my heart, and I'll never forget the absolute terror.

"I won't hurt you…Dean, I could never hurt you," I know how corny it was, and I expect Dean to flash to life, that flare of annoyance in his eyes as one eyebrow rises, the other curving downwards along with his lips puckering slightly like he's bitten into a lemon. The way he tilts his chin down to stare at me like he's never seen me before, and comments about how I'm a girl. But instead, he moves away from me, sliding along the wall until he's stuck in the corner. His movements are awkward and jerky, almost like he doesn't remember how to move his body. Oh please don't panic. Dean. Please. I pull my hand back, but inch towards him a little. Why the hell can't he be curious? He was always getting into everything all the time and now…now, he's scared. Great. That's just like him, always being a pain in my ass.

I can remember our last few days together like I'm still trying to live through them. Hell our last month was a mess. Dean'n I decided to hit Vegas for a few days. Until we heard of a hunt. I think I came back to the motel drunk almost every night, Dean came back rarely enough. Hell, he won a lot of money. I enjoyed myself as much as I could, but I needed a lot of whiskey to be able to smile. Neither one of us were happy. And Vegas was my idea, too. Dean had no idea what he wanted. Just said 'I'm tired of this Sammy. I'm tired of this weight on my shoulders, man. I can't take it anymore.' I blew him off when he did…but with a month left, and counting, I took him up on his idea of a vacation. He made enough money that we were able to sleep in actual hotels for a few days. We even bought some newer parts for the Impala. Dean said it was so I would be able to take care of his 'baby' easier, but…I know he just loves the car. But he made me help him put the parts in. His way of trying to bond, I guess. Both of us, hands covered in grease, Dean managed to smear it across his chin then he rubbed his hand over his jaw…when I pointed it out he smeared his greasy fingers across my face, saying I was 'too clean'.

Or our 'last supper' as Dean dubbed it, grinning and raising his eyebrows just to get a reaction from me. It's just like Dean to enjoy haggling me about my faith, but hell, at least he seems to respect it. "Hey Sammy…uh, this is the one thing mom taught me to cook. Last thing…last of her cooking Dad and I ever ate," Dean smiled at me, his green eyes glistening with tears. His lip trembled slightly, but he looked down, tongue running over his lower lip as he nodded once or twice. "Yeah," he whispered. Sausage, potatoes and onions. "Only, we had…we had," he chuckled, remembering. "We had all this cabbage left over from St. Patty's day, right? So she tossed that in there, and Dad, he was so mad," he just grinned at me, before taking a bite of potato, eyes closed in appreciation. I forced myself to take a bite, knowing I'm going to have to fight to keep anything in my stomach. Even though it was good. How could he be so calm? "And he was so mad about her putting rabbit food into his…" he had to stop to laugh again. "In his food, and she just told him to behave, said that he could eat this, or he could go hungry." I know what he was trying to do. Trying to share what he remembered of mom with me. Normally he wouldn't ever talk about her. Ever. It hurt him too much. But, he was telling me about her. And us. When we were little.

"You probably don't remember this," he started. "But Dad…he botched telling you about the Easter Bunny," I guess I looked surprised, because he snorted, wrinkling his nose as he grinned at me, "And so you were convinced that the thing was going to break in, right? And that we had to hunt it, because it was a giant bunny, and Sam, you wouldn't sleep…and we were staying at Uncle Jim's…" he broke of laughing. I laughed, too. It's good to see him laugh, it's been so long since Dean's really laughed. Sure he does that half laugh, that bitter _sound_ that escapes when he tries to push away the pain. But this, this was him actually laughing, and it was infectious. "So, Uncle Jim, he was trying to set up Easter eggs for a little mini-egg hunt, for you, I was too old, but I was supposed to help you, and we'd split the candy, but when Dad explained the hunt…you thought…you thought that it was leaving evil eggs behind, not chocolate eggs, so you felt like you had to kill the bunny to keep it from spreading its evil eggs across the country." I remember when I said "Yeah, right, Dean." And he grinned, shaking his head, biting his lower lip to keep from smiling a little, "No, dude, I'm dead serious. You can ask Bobby about it, considering Uncle Jim told Dad, and so Dad told Bobby, telling him to keep the guns away from you at Christmas, because he didn't want you trying to shoot Santa." I still don't believe I tried to kill the Easter Bunny. But, it made Dean laugh. It made me laugh. It was good. It hurt, every beat of my heart a new wound in my chest as it marked the seconds of my brother's life spilling away.

That Christmas was the worst Christmas of my life, and I've had some bad ones. I washed and waxed the Impala, then got myself so drunk I don't remember the rest of the week, even. I know I visited Bobby, I think he got drunk, too. I just know Dean'd be worried I was becoming an alcoholic, so I tried to limit when I got myself piss drunk. Jess's…that was horrible without Dean. It was horrible enough with. But there wasn't anyone there to throw things at me to shake me out of my nightmares. And so my nightmares about my love started to include Dean, both of them burning to death, calling for me, and me unable to reach either one. Dean on the floor, Jessica on my ceiling. I was hunting, sometimes with Bobby. Sometimes I called Deacon, even, just for company. I ended up sleeping with more girls than I can name. In fact I can't name a single one, but anything for company. Anything to not be alone. Now I understand why Dean needed me back when Dad disappeared before Jess died. It hurts too much. It hurts.

I inch towards my brother, "Dean, please…remember, remember Mom, Dean? Remember how she said angels were watching over you? Watching over us Dean. You're here now, you're back, she wasn't lying Dean. She wasn't lying. You're my brother. Dean, she was right. There are angels, and there're probably unicorns, too. And they might just shoot moonbeams out their ass, but, Dean…there're angels, and Mom was right. You don't…it doesn't have to hurt to remember that anymore. She wasn't lying." I'm just repeating myself. But it doesn't matter. She wasn't lying. "And, when she took you to church, dragged Dad, too, it was okay. Because Dean, there's a God…and he's answered all the prayers I've ever had, Dean. I've got a family. I've got you. I've got Bobby. Please….Dean…please come back to me. Please. Don't leave me alone, not again, please don't leave me alone again…" The tears run down my cheeks, and I don't dare wipe them away, I don't want to startle him, every time I move he flinches away.

"Dean…do you remember, remember Mom's favorite hymn? Dad'd hum it all the time. Do you…Dean…" my throat tightens. He just looks scared, cornered. He's not…I can't find my brother in that gaze. My voice is shaky, and I find myself singing softly, "I'm just a poor, wayfarin' stranger/a wanderin' through, this world of woe/but there's no sickness, toil nor danger in that bright land to which I go/I'm going there to see my Mother/I'm going there no more to roam/I'm just a-goin' over Jordan/I'm just a-goin' over home…" I can't sing to save my soul, much less Dean's, he used to smack me whenever I found myself humming or singing along to the radio or tapes he was playing.

"_Sammy, if Freddie Mercury wanted Bohemian Rhapsody sung by drunken monkeys, he woulda found some, so shut up!" _

There's nothing, no reaction from my brother. In fact, he stands up shakily, leaning against the wall, looking around, moving cautiously away from me, half crouched, Bobby blocks him from going through the door. I have to have something, my hands searching my pockets…I find my wallet, and there's a picture of mom. "Dean!" His head snaps around to me, more from the noise than recognizing his own name, I think. I hope he recognizes his name. But I know he doesn't. He doesn't recognize me, his name can't mean anything else. He can barely stand, his body's shaking and every movement he makes looks wrong, like all his bones are broken. I hold out the picture of mom, my hand trembling. He does move towards me, I don't know why, but he looks at the photo, and I hope he doesn't rip it up, or hurt it. Taking it in trembling fingers…


	7. Chapter 6: Simple Remembrance

_(**A/N:** this is a long one. And I'm working on chapter 10, hitting another roadblock. Ideas, reviews? Either way. Enjoy.)_

**Chapter Six: Simple Remembrance **

"Mom?" his bandaged fingers gently trace the curve of our mother's cheek, lightly touching her blonde hair, and I can see the pain wash over him in waves. His voice is so rough and hoarse, it doesn't sound like Dean at all. It makes me sick, a little. Hearing him sound like that. It's like he hasn't spoken in months…or like he doesn't quite remember how. Bobby stays back, giving us this moment alone, I guess. He's just as much family as anyone's ever been. "Mom…" his voice trembles, eyes welling with tears, and I can see my brother in his face. I'd gone to the vault figured I needed...needed something to hold on to, was hoping to find something, and I guess I did…I think of it as a crypt, at this point. A mausoleum for every hope or dream any Winchester ever had, my soccer trophies, Dean's drawings, and Dad's pictures. My brother could _draw_.

I remember him talking about Mr. H, some art teacher he had, one who encouraged him in middle school to draw. Dean told me that the guy pulled out his old huge sketch books from college, and the two went over them together. Sadly, Mr. H was in the naval reserves, and when Iraq…he had a wife and kid, Dean said last he knew, he was looking to buy a tractor to mow the acres of land, and how proud he was of his son. How they'd talk about cameras, digital vs. analogue, and everything. But…Iraq. Dean'd looked him up, wanted to see what happened. Got a few medals, at least. Dean got himself pretty drunk that night. Told me how he'd wanted to draw well so he could draw Mom. Because there aren't enough pictures. Never enough. I found a drawing, one Dad must have saved. It's unmistakably Mom. Dean has her eyes. Dad's jaw, Mom's eyes, a mix of their hair colors. And Dad's iron backbone. I pull a crumpled and much folded paper out of my pocket. I went and scanned Dean's drawing of mom, and I hold that out to him as well, and he looks at it, collapsing down hard on the floor, the tears spilling over his cheeks.

There's only one thing left in my pockets other than a pocket knife and lighter. And that's something that won't do Dean any good. It's a picture of Jessica. I move towards him cautiously. He rocks a little on the floor, fingers tracing every line in Mom's face, smoothing over her forehead and lips, biting his lip hard. He starts to bleed, little red trails against his white skin.

"Remember Mom, Dean? Remember how…beautiful she was? How much Dad loved her. Remember Dad, Dean? Do you remember how you promised to protect me, and I never really needed it…? Can you remember Pastor Jim? How he'd take us in sometimes when Dad was on a hunt, and you'd get into these…arguments with him about theology and complain about the rules and drive him insane? Do you remember that teacher you had in high school? Your history teacher. You idolized him, every day you'd come home with some new story about him to tell. And I know that you talked to him. Do you remember? You were late on the anniversary of Mom's death just that once. Dad was freaking out and pissed…and we got a call from you at school, apologizing and saying you'd come home right away, you were just talking with a teacher. Dad was so pissed. But, it was the only class you ever had an A in, other than art, and you hated that teacher in high school, because she wasn't anything like the one in middle school. She wouldn't let you just draw." The words just pour from my mouth, begging my brother to remember. Trying to use my words to pull him together, picking up all the pieces and trying to make them fit back into the man I knew.

"But you'd talk to him about anything, television, history. He's the only teacher you ever liked. And you liked the English teacher okay, but she was too insightful for you, and too open about it. We had to move because she asked too many questions. Called Dad. Remember he lost his temper once…it was the one time he ever hit you. Just once. And you went to school with that bruise on the side of your face…you could hardly open your eye, and it hurt to eat. You wouldn't admit it, but you wouldn't touch your food." It hurts to remember that. Dad'd hit him with his left hand. Wedding ring left a mark on his cheek. "She called Dad, wanted to know how you managed to trip and do that to your face, and wanted to know why you wouldn't do your homework, because you were too smart not to. And we had to move. You got straight D's in history after that. Dad was so pissed. He didn't get how you could go from an A to a D like that."

His green eyes meet mine. "Sam?" I can hear his voice break in agony. I don't care what he says later, I drop to my knees on the floor next to him, pulling my brother into my arms, I don't care what anyone thinks. This is Dean.

--

I press my face into my brother's chest, breathing in his scent, my aching hands still clutching the paper with mom's face on it. "Sammy," I choke, it hurts Sam, it still hurts so bad. And I'm scared. I'm scared it's never going to stop.

--

His hands are clutching the front of my shirt, and I'm concerned he's going to hurt them. Knowing how he's held me all the times I've ever been really hurt or sick, mainly when I was little, I put one hand on the back of his head, holding him to me. "Dean, it…" it's not okay. It's not over. I can't offer him a single word of comfort. My own tears start to fall. And I know that my brother's here. I've got Dean back. And I know what I can tell him. The only thing that makes a difference anymore, the only thing we have left, all that matters, "I'm here Dean…I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere." It's all that matters. We're together again. We're a family again.

Each sob rips itself from Dean's chest, and his entire body shakes and convulses with every single sob, and I can barely hear Bobby's soft tread as he reaches us, crouching down and putting a hand on my brother's shoulder, gripping it gently. I half expect the sobs to rip my brother apart, he's crying so hard. They just tear through him. I start to sort of compulsively rock back and forth, unsure of what to do to calm my brother down. And I don't want to dislodge Bobby. He's like our dad, he's part of this, and has been for a long time.

"We're here Dean. We're here." It takes me a while to realize that Dean _can't_ stop crying. I shake him gently, afraid I'm going to hurt him, but I'm so careful. Dean. I'm sorry Dean. I realize something that I hadn't paid attention to before. The tattoo, the one that matches mine against possession, it's gone. He's safe now, sure, but he'll have to have it done again. He whined about it for hours. It hurt, I'll admit it, even if he wouldn't, he's going to hate having it re-done. I might not want to mention that for a few weeks. I shake him one more time, trying to end the hysterics without having to slap him. I don't want to slap Dean. Sure, I've wanted to sure, but…not now. His sobs start to calm, and his body shudders against mine, as he struggles to breathe. My hand automatically rubs his back gently, doing my best to comfort him, trying to ease the pain. He's got so many knots in the muscles of his back it's no small wonder he's hurting. Then again, I know these tears aren't for any physical pain he's in. I'm sorry Dean. I know there's nothing I can do. And that we'll never ever talk about this again, but I can still be here, now. I can hold him. Do my best to comfort him.

--

It hurts to force my fingers off my brother's shirt front. My hands ache. I manage to look at myself some, I'm in Sammy's sweats, and his shirt is on over mine. "Dude, did you put me in _your_ clothes?" I manage to choke out between shuddering sobs. My voice feels wrong, scratchy, and I keep stuttering. Like, I know what I want to say, and my body can't make it work right. Trying to harden my voice, "What the hell happened to _my _clothes?" I feel more than hear Sammy's soft chuckle, and Bobby lightly pats my shoulder, but I don't move away from Sam. If anything, I push my face deeper into his shirt, smelling his scent, the smell of the Impala, Sam's girly sissy deodorant, the detergent he used to wash his clothes, and the floral smell of his hair gel. God he's a girl. But I can't manage to choke out the words, instead all I can do is sob into his shirt front. I'm so cold, still. And I ache all over, like someone's put me through a meat grinder. I suppose in many ways, I have been. Now I get why all the demons are so keen to get out. Sam pulls me closer, and I can't lie, it feels so good. Safe. I feel safe. Bobby's there. I look at the crumpled paper in my hand, hiccupping slightly. "_I_ drew this," my voice sounds confused and almost annoyed, despite the occasional sob I'm trying to force down. I'm tempted to see if Sam'll react if I pretend to blow my nose in his shirt. Then again, he might push me away, and all I want right now is to be held. I'm so cold. I don't feel right. I feel like, I know the things I should do, to be me, but I don't know who 'me' is.

Bobby chuckles, "Sam figured it might jog your memory." Then he stands up, I can feel it, because I still haven't turned to look at him. I don't want to see the pity in his eyes. With Sam it's just relief and concern. I can handle that. "C'mon, let's get you off the floor," he tells me. "I don't want you tearing any of those stitches."

"Stitches?"

"Dean," Sam says trying to placate me, but I don't _want_ to be placated.

"Don't you remember anything?" Bobby asks. Sam's breath hitches.

"I remember pain. I remember being cold. I remember not knowing anything. I remember losing bits and pieces of myself, forgetting Dad. Forgetting Mom…" my voice breaks and Sam hugs me again. Not wanting to be so weak, I at first try to pull away, then give in. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters anymore. I'm still sickened at my own need for the comfort, and I take advantage of the hug, hiding my face in Sam's shirt until I'm in control, then I push away, crying out when my hands _hurt_.

"Dean!"

"I'm fine," the words pour easily from my mouth, so practiced and firm, I almost believe them. I know they're what I'm supposed to say. But it's a lie. I don't know why I'm lying, or why it even matters. But for some reason, I'm supposed to. So Sam doesn't worry. But I just feel empty.

"Damnit Dean! You broke some of your fingers, and you're missing some fingernails there, so take it easy on your poor hands!" It's an explosion of emotion, and from Bobby, I know that he's grieving for me. Some reason my hands being so mangled has something to do with whatever they're hiding from me. Guess if I don't remember, I don't want to. I'll put it together later. Letting Sam help me stand up, I'm shaking still. In fact I can't really stand, I can barely walk. Sam's holding me up and I'm trying so hard to make my body work right. But nothing does what I want it to. My muscles ache, and standing is a chore. What the hell happened?

"Dean, you cold still?" Sam sounds like some old granny, worried like that.

"I'm okay Sam." My hands are covered by his sleeves, and the cuffs of his sweats are under my heels, so I'm walking on them. The elastic digs into the arch of my foot a little. My body feels…raw. The cloth chafes against my skin, it's like someone went and rubbed me over with sandpaper, and each movement of the cloth against my tender skin causes waves of agony. I vaguely wonder how many layers I'm wearing. Considering I can feel elastic-y cloth against my legs. It's loose, too loose for the usual under armor Sam and I wear on cold weather hunts. Moving to the bed with Sam's help, I sit down, well more collapse, ignoring the look Sam gives me, telling me to crawl under the covers and rest. I can't stop shaking.

--

I think Dean looks worse…he's managed to get paler, I think. Then again maybe I'm just paranoid. Bobby and I meet eyes several times, both thinking the same thing. And Dean can't stop shaking. Bobby catches his chin to keep his head still, and hands him the thermometer, the normal kind. Dean gives him a pathetic excuse for a death-glare, and slips it under his tongue obediently. If shakily. I cringe, half expecting him to poke himself in the eye with it, instead of getting it under his tongue.

"Sam, go get some more soup…" Bobby tells me. I go as quickly as I can, unwilling to disobey Bobby, and just as unwilling to spend any amount of time longer than I have to away from my brother. Coming back Bobby's got him at least lying down in the bed, the cover's pushed away, Dean's propped up on some pillows, looking just about as baleful as he can manage. I force a smile off my face. I have my brother back. I have my _brother_ back. His temperature reads at normal.

I put the bowl down on the small nightstand near the bed, figuring with Dean's hands he can't hold it himself. Settling myself on the side of the bed near to Dean as I can manage without touching him –it'll just aggravate him. He tries to pick up the spoon. His fingers…he can't really. And he hasn't stopped shaking. No, he's trembling. I'm not going to feed him. For one thing he'll kill me later. For another, I've already had to do it once for him, and he was unconscious so it was easier.

"I'll get a cup," Bobby announces, leaving us alone. The silence kills me.

"So," Dean says, his voice light, despite the fact the shudders that run through his body also run through his voice. They shake me to my core. Then it hits me, I'm a moron.

"You're in shock," I mumble. Pulling up a blanket from the bed, I wrap it around his shoulders, and he leans into my touch, for all I know he's trying not to. Bobby brings in the cup, and I take in my own hand, sliding next to Dean and slipping my arm around his shoulders so support him so he can stay sitting up, considering he's visibly tiring, and his head's starting to droop. Holding the cup up to his lips, his hand comes up to grip my wrist, or he tries to grip it, but for the most part his hand's just resting there. I'm able to tip the cup to his lips so he can drink, and he can push my hand away if he needs to. He just can't stop shaking. I'm trying to steady his body with my own, and I know it's the shock of everything he's been through…pulling the blanket tighter against my brother's shoulders I'm also able to pull him in closer.

--

I drink the soup as fast as I can, ignoring how hot it is, hell I don't bother to even chew the noodles. They're so soft anyway, I can just swallow them along with the liquid. I know it's warm enough it should burn my mouth, but I can hardly feel. The blanket over my shoulders causes me immeasurable pain, but all the same it eases the trembling. Too bad I can't use my hands. I'm trying to figure out what I did to them. But all the same my limbs aren't responding to me very well in the first place. So maybe it's not just my hands. But my hands hurt. I went to hell, I remember that. I remember the pain, the heat the blistering pain that completely destroyed me, leaving nothing left but the utter agony. I couldn't remember, couldn't think, I was nothing. I lean gratefully into Sam, letting my tired eyes droop closed. They hurt so bad.

I was in hell. How did I get out? I don't remember. I remember the pain ending in one respect, and being surrounded in utter darkness, trying to push my way out of the blackness and into the light. I don't know if I found it or not, but I guess I did. Considering I'm here right now, with Sam. Settling my head against his collar bone, I allow my chin to droop to my chest, eyes closing. It's too much effort to stay awake, and I'm so cold, and Sammy…he's warm. He's like a furnace, and right now, that's exactly what I need.

I drift in the blissful unawareness of sleep, and into my nightmares.

--

Dean falls asleep against me and I can't move without risking waking him. He's never exactly been a deep sleeper unless he's been medicated. You give Dean morphine and he's out for days. It's especially funny because he talks about how much better he is with handling his beer and drugs. Mainly because morphine makes me puke. But I'm not the one who passes out for at least twelve hours if not more. His breathing's soft if shaky, and I tuck my chin down, trying to see his face. He looks like he's in pain.

"Bobby?" looked like he'd left to deal with the cup I put down only a few minutes ago. When he comes back in, our eyes meet. "Bobby is he okay? I can't see his face." He frowns and walks over to us, looking at Dean.

"I dunno Sam, but I'd wager a few franklins that it's not a happy dream he's having right now," Bobby admitted. "I'll see if I can find him a sedative or something, hopefully block out the dreams." Bobby leaves me alone with Dean again, and some part of me is scared to be alone with Dean. What if I can't help him? What if I can't save him? I don't think he's out of the water yet. Something just doesn't feel right to me. Then after a few more minutes he starts to fight me a little, pushing away, and I do my best to lower him down to the pillow without waking him up, and to try and still his movements. The only thing that's worse than the pain on his face is the things he's saying in his sleep. Calling out. I'm used to Dean calling out in his sleep, he does it all the time, usually after a bad hunt. Usually he calls out for Dad or Mom, and every once in a while he calls out for me, but it's rare. This time he's just rambling. Begging, even. His voice shakes and stutters out, it doesn't feel right, it's jarring against my ears. And it scares me.

"Please…stop, stop, please…I'll scream…I'll do whatever you want, please stop. Don't hurt me anymore…please…please…I can't remember…I …help, I'm supposed to…I'm supposed to protect something…I can't remember….please, I just…just stop so I can remember…." His begging makes my throat close off, and I can't breathe. So this is hell. Looking around, Bobby's not back yet, so I gently smooth Dean's hair back from his face, lightly stroking the honey brown hair. He's going to have to shave, and as shaky as he is, he's bound to cut himself a billion times or more. He'll probably bleed to death, knowing him. It would just be our luck. Dean claws his way out of hell…and dies from a shaving cut. Rolling my eyes at my own cynical thoughts, I know exactly what he'd say.

"Dean," my voice is as gentle and comforting as I can make it, considering the tears that spring to my eyes making my throat clench. I can see the tick in his jaw as his body keeps shivering. "Dean, it's okay. You found me, you found Bobby. It's okay, you can remember. No one's hurting you. Not anymore, okay?" I realize that if he's only managing to stay warm because of all the extra layers, he's actually probably really cold. But, I'm sure it's the shock that's making him shake like that.

Bobby walks back in and I look up.

--

These boys, they're like my own, and every time a shiver wrenches Dean's broken body, it wrenches my heart along with it. I've got a hypodermic in my hand, a vial of a mild sedative in the other, before I come to sit on Dean's other side. "Sam, can you get one of his arms bared?" it's an easy enough task, one Sam manages to do. Dean's right, given as how it's closest to me. As my shadow passes over him, I gasp in shock, seeing how…all these cuts and bone poking through the flesh, then I as I shift, he looks fine. Scraped and bruised a little, not to mention pale…but nothing like what I'd just seen. Sam's seen it, too. Carefully tapping the inside of Dean's elbow, the vein stands out fine. Taking a small amount of the sedative, I check the needle, making sure there's no air bubbles before giving Dean a small enough dose. I'm tempted to give some to Sam, too, possibly myself. Not like we couldn't all use it. Dean's starting to sweat, tossing and turning as best he can, given his condition. And Sam and are I sitting on either side forcing the covers tighter against his body, restraining him slightly. I know he can't stand being restrained or trapped, and that's the hunter instinct, but all the same, he's going to hurt himself if we don't hold him down.

"Dean, son," I rest my hand on his shoulder, my thumb lightly moving in a circle against the hollow of his shoulder, where the muscle of his neck overlaps the bone. It seems to quiet him a little, but all the same it almost seems to hurt him. And he's sweating. His hair's already damp from it. "C'mon Sam, let's get him out of your shirt, huh?" I ask, carefully slipping one of Dean's arms free from the flannel, mindful of his hands. It took forever to set the bone so he'd be able to use those fingers again. Not to mention cleaning up all the damage he'd done to himself. He won't have to worry about leaving fingerprints for a few weeks at least. He seems to settle down a little with the extra shirt off. He's still wearing three layers, all the same. I don't know what to do for him, because as soon as he settles he starts to get panicky again in his sleep, even with the sedative. Carefully I slide my hand under his neck, more on the back of his head, too, my other hand moves under his shoulders, lifting him up. I don't want to strain his neck any. Or wake him up. Pulling him to my chest the way I've held him when he was barely five years old, I end up rocking back and forth a little.

He's asleep, or I wouldn't. But, I've rocked both these boys to sleep in my arms more than once. Dean…he wouldn't sleep, or he'd beg to stay up, he always had some excuse. If he would even talk. Sometimes he'd just shake his head. But he couldn't stop me picking him up and holding him. And Sam was just a baby, you had to rock him to sleep, wasn't like I'd had a choice. Dean settles against my chest with a soft sigh, and I can feel Sam relax along with his brother.

"Sam?"

"Yeah Bobby?"

"We never speak of this. Ever. Especially not to Dean."

"Yeah Bobby. I kinda know by now."

"Don't be a smart ass. You're not anywhere near as good at it as your brother." I let Dean stay settled against my chest, it's not going to hurt him any. Or me. "Why don't you go find the bread and cheese in the fridge and make some sandwiches. I don't know about you, but I could use more than a bowl of soup." God knows the sun's been up for a while now, and I'm exhausted. Once Dean wakes up, or at least stays calm for more than a few minutes, I'm going to take a nap of my own. Sam got a few hours at least. Which is why he should cook, because he's less likely to light himself on fire than I am right now.

"Dean…" I don't think it'll ever be okay. I don't think he'll ever be 'right' again. Not that either man has ever been 'right'. John…he could have…there are so many things he could have done. When Dean was little, and I mean little, Sam still just learning to walk, John'd come to visit sometimes, drop the boys off. I'd hear the creak of the Impala door, and the moment Dean saw me, he'd stop hovering around behind his father and run forward to me, because he knew I'd pick him up and hold him. John'd have Sam on his hip, the little curly haired boy resting his head against his father's shoulder, thumb in mouth. But, when it was time for the boys to go home, Dean didn't run to his father. He kept his head down, and I know he wanted a hug. Something from his father. Hell, even a pat on the head. Nothing. He'd draw himself up after he passed his father. Like a soldier. And that's what those boys were. And that's all they've ever been. Damnit John.

--

My mind is free to wander while I make the sandwiches, and I find myself feeling awkward around Dean. He was gone for a year, and it might have been the hardest of my life, and life went on. Things kept going, and as much as I've ever thought I've needed Dean after losing everyone, I survived. It's like when I left for college, I missed my family, sure, but I made it without them. I started a life of my own, and lived it. While I might not have started a new life when I lost Dean, I had Bobby, I had Deacon sometimes, I've had help. And…I didn't need Dean. I wanted him back so badly. I really did. I survived, and all I ever wanted was him back, and now that I've got him, I can't figure out where in my life he belongs. He doesn't fit anymore. And that thought cuts me to the bone, making my heart miss a beat. He's my brother, he has to fit into my life. But on hunts…I had a whole new pattern developed, because I barely ever had backup. And I'm still alive after a year on my own. I know I'm not the same, and that things are a lot darker without Dean…it's funny, because, he was always the closed off one, the one who wouldn't share any of his pain or make anything easier…but things are still so much darker without him.

Flipping the sandwiches in the pan so they'll cook evenly, I shake my head, trying to ignore the fears creeping up over me. I can feel their cold fingers grasping at my heart, and I want to ignore them. But…what am I going to do with Dean? He's been out of action for a year, and there's no way his body can keep up with mine on a hunt. He's shaking and his body, I can tell his motor skills are all but gone. He has trouble talking, I can see it's a struggle, it's in his face. Hell, he'd be a liability. Dean…a liability. I feel sick to my stomach at that thought. But it's true. We can't just go back to things being as they were. Here I've been for the past year without Dean, needing him back for so long, and now that he's here…I can't think of what to do. I love him, he's my brother. I'd die for him. But where does he fit into my life? I owe him mine so many times over, but…I don't…I don't know. Rubbing at my eyes, I find a plate and flip the sandwiches onto it, turning the heat off the oven. Don't need to burn Bobby's place down. He might just throttle me like he keeps threatening to.

--

It hurts to sleep. It hurts to close my eyes. My skin hurts. I'm awake now, aware that I'm up against Bobby. He smells different from Sam, by a long shot. Bobby smells…like books, kind of, I guess. And a little like whiskey. Boy could I use some right now. My throat hurts, and my mouth feels gritty. I really want to brush my teeth. I can taste dirt, along with the soup. Oh my god…It hits me. I know why my fingers are broken, why I feel like I'm coated in dust and dirt, why my throat's raw and gritty…I…I was…oh god…I…I can remember…

--

When Dean starts to tremble again I get a little worried, looking down at him. "Dean, you okay? Dean you awake?" He's shaking pretty hard now. He was fairly calm before. Running a hand over his hair, I can't figure out for the life of me what's wrong with him. Considering he won't respond. Shaking him a little, like Sam had earlier, "Dean? Dean you answer me." I try to keep my voice patient and calm. He won't, hell he won't even raise his head. Pushing him away from my chest so I can get a better look at him, there're tears escaping from under his tightly shut lids. "Dean…" my voice is certainly more gentle.

"I…I was…I clawed…I had to…" Poor kid's babbling so much and trying to fight the sobs.

"Dean, you're here. Okay?" Sam chooses right now to walk in. Brilliant timing. These two…they're a mess. "Dean, Sam's here." It's not fair to not tell him.

"I know," he whispers, almost like he can just feel his sibling. I wouldn't be surprised at this point.

"Dean, you okay?" Sam's already setting the food down, for all it's me who asked the question.

"I'm fine," he says, opening his eyes. "I think I need a shower. And a toothbrush," he looks up at his brother, not quite meeting his eyes, but the look is so…innocent somehow. "Sam, did you throw my toothbrush out, or do you still have it?" he asks.

"I got it Dean. I didn't throw anything of yours out except the clothes that were just asking for it."

"If you so much as threw out a single thread of my Zeppelin t-shirt I swear I will kill you," Dean tells him. All the fire in his voice is lost with the stutters and pauses in between the words that drag a little too long.

"Dude, only the socks and stuff with holes." That would include boxers and things. Sam'd just done all the laundry left over and figured there was no point in folding up the clothes that were basically trash. Especially without Dean around to protest.

"Damn straight."

"Here, I'll go get your toothbrush, and your razor, too, okay?" Dean nods, and I watch Sam leave again. Dean looks funny to me. Other than the pink undertone to his pale skin. It looks almost like he's raw somehow. I'm looking for the scars I know so well on his face or anywhere else, and I can't find them. It's almost like someone erased them, or better yet just started him in a whole new body. I'm looking for the creases in his face, laugh lines, anything. He's too young to really have lines, but when he's making a face, generally you can see hints at where the lines are going to form. Nothing. His skin, it's like someone went and ran sandpaper over it until there weren't any flaws. I have no idea what happened, but other than the wounds inflicted when he dug his body out, it looks like he's just…new. Like a baby, almost. Touching his forehead, he gives me this look.

"Dean."

"Yeah?"

"Never mind. I'm gonna go and make sure the shower's clean. And that the hot water's on."

He grins. "Mind if I come with you?" I know he's already planning something for Sam, if he needs to. But it doesn't feel real, almost like he's forcing it. Going through the motions he doesn't quite understand anymore.  
"No, you stay here on your butt and rest. You still haven't stopped shaking. And I've given you a full dose of the more mild sedative I have. But still." He nods. And when he does I cringe, because it looks like his neck his broken, he's so jerky. Dean is one of those people who is just graceful. It's a hunter's grace, and they all have it, and Dean seems to have it in spades –maybe it's just against Sam, who's tall and all limbs, but seeing Dean…so uncoordinated and…it's just _wrong_.

"Sam'll come back with some fresh clothes, and everything else, okay? Just relax."

--

I nod my head, it's fine. It'll be okay. I just need a shower. Bobby gets up. He leaves me, and I can feel my heart rate go up. Please come back. Don't leave me. It takes every single ounce of will power not to get up and go after him, begging him to not leave. Then again I'm not sure I _can_ walk. Sam, too. I don't want to be alone. Please, don't leave me alone. I can still feel the flames. Please, what if it comes back for me? I play with the amulet Sam gave me, I can remember it. Remember it in hell, I remember how it burned my very soul. I pull the collars of my various shirts down, glancing at my chest, expecting to see its outline burned into my flesh. Nothing, just smooth white skin. Hey, wait, I had a scar here. By the time Sam comes back in, I've tugged off all three shirts, and I'm looking over my arms and chest, and stomach. Despite how difficult it was to get them off, and how much the fabric on my skin hurt. It still stings more than the usual burn I was trying to get used to. Hey, what about this…I remember having a scar here. And here. I can see all the stitches from digging…digging. But, I don't, I don't I should have a scar right here from when I had chicken pox.

"Dean, what the hell are you doing?" Sam asks, somehow sounding scandalized.

"What, I'm not flashing you so shut up." I'm so not in the mood. I don't have the patience or energy to be nice. I don't even remember how. I love my brother, but I can't take this right now. I don't know what loving him means right now. It hurts to talk, and it's a struggle to force out the words I want. And I don't, I just don't know.

"Well, here," he shoves the small cloth case into my hand, and dumps my duffel at my feet before stalking out of the room. I decide I don't care if he's mad at me or not. Or if I manage to alienate him. It's been so long I don't remember how to be his brother, anyway. My hands hurt, and I can barely hold anything with them. Regardless of my broken fingers or anything, I can't seem to get the good ones to close or do what I want them.

I remember that week, and our conversations, as I head to the bathroom and start stripping down and laying out my things for during and after the shower. Christ, how many layers did they get on me? And why the hell does it have to hurt so bad to take my clothes off? I can barely stand up. Why is this so difficult? It was never hard before. I stagger, my hips slamming into the counter. Well that hurt. And was entirely unnecessary. Ow. At least it was my hips. Because any lower… I need to shave, and cut my hair some. It's longer than I like it, over my ears and on the back of my neck. I can just get the longest shaving attachment and shave my hair. It'll work. Won't look amazing, but it won't matter. Doing this, and having done it a million times, leaves my mind free to remember. Keeping one hand firmly on the counter for balance, I ignore the spikes of pain as my legs threaten to give out and my weight focuses on my hand before I can lock my knees again to keep myself upright.

"_Dean, you okay?" _

"_Yeah Sam, I'm still okay, just like I was five minutes ago." _

"_Well, I'm sorry," he sounded so snappish. _

"_Look, Sam, I'm fine. I made a choice okay?"_

"_But Dean…I promised I'd save you…" I could hear the catch in his voice. It hurt me, badly. _

"_Yeah, and I told you not to, and that I wasn't going to die. And I'm not going to die."_

"_Dean you're going to hell!"_

"_But I'm not technically dying, and so you're not breaking your word."_

_Sam sputtered for a while, unable to assault my logic. Then again, it didn't make any sense to me, either. "Dean, it's hell! I didn't save you!" Please Sam, don't cry. He didn't. Instead when he took his shower, I could hear him cussing me out between sobs the entire time. I always turn the fan on, so I can say whatever I want and not have him hear me. Lord knows when Dad died…I cried myself out in the shower. Sam had no idea. It's the fan. And turning the water on the hardest you can, twisting the shower head and all. More noise everything else makes, the less anyone can hear. _

_I couldn't turn up AC/DC loud enough to drown out his angry sobs. Each one was like a knife in my gut. Then the next morning was even worse._

"_Here, Dean, I brought you coffee."_

"_Oh, thanks Sammy. You didn't have to."_

"_Well, it's the least…" then he had to go out and get something from the Impala. Like I couldn't see him crying. Sammy. Way to make me feel guilty. That entire day was spent with us running away from each other, trying not to cry. _

_Then the end of the week, like, two days before the crossroads…_

"_Dean?"_

"_Yeah Sammy?"_

"_Is there…there anything you want…to, y'know, do? Before…"_

"_Before what Sam?" I honestly at the time wasn't thinking about my deal running out. I thought he meant by like, sun down, or noon or something._

"_What the hell do you think?!" he exploded, standing up and grabbing me by the front of the shirt before he let go. "Dude, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I didn't mean…I didn't…I just thought maybe…"_

"_It's fine Sam," I was shaken. "I was just gonna go to bed early, y'know? I'm kinda tired…"_

"_Oh." He said in a small voice. _

"_Sorry. I know…I know time's running out and all."_

"_Yeah, no…you look tired." _

_Yeah, awkward. That's what our life is, though, isn't it? A series of awkward twisted moments making up our lives. All our mistakes. All our troubles. Our pains. Our fears, our anxieties. Our tragedies, our comedies. Our agonies. That's who we are, isn't it? We're just comprised of the mistakes we make, and how we've learned from them. When Sam fell asleep, I stood up and gently brushed his hair back from his face._

"_You need a hair cut Sammy. But hell, I guess I can love you anyway," I told him._

_Crawling into bed and tugging the covers over my shoulder, I swear I heard a muffled "I love you too, even if you are a dumb-ass." I remember I dreamed that night._

I can't remember my dreams. They're like wisps of ether, poking at the corners of my memory in hints and flashes, glimpses of brighter and better places just waiting behind closed eyes, ready to spring forward into bright vivid life. But all I have now is the nightmares. That's all I've had for a long time. It's just an inky depth, full of the darkness inside us all, penetrated only by the bright stars of twinkling hope and life. That's what dreams are. And that's all they'll ever be, and all we'll can be.

Sam. How does this work anymore? He's just a name to me. A concept. I don't feel anything when I look at him. Not like before when I would feel pride. I knew he was my brother, and he'd grown up into this powerful man, and somehow, I'd done right by him, as best I could. But now, I don't see anything. It's like hell stripped everything from me and left me empty.

Did he still love me? Did I still love him? Can I still love him? After looking myself over, I can see pores blackened by the dirt I pulled myself through. I remember. Sam knows. I could see it in his face. Carefully using my electric razor to fix my hair as best I can, I also shave off the beard that's decided to take up residence on my face. The thick locks of dirty brown hair fall around the counter top and into the sink. I'm going to have to clean this up. Before or after I shower though? Well considering once I finish with my hair, I'm going to be shedding all over the place, I should shower first. I feel so gritty and unclean. It's like when Dad and I fought some sort of like, slug-demon thing, I don't really remember. Then again, that was my first concussion, too. So, no wonder I don't remember it too well. Dad was so freaked out, I can't remember anything beyond hitting my head, and hearing my name yelled over and over again in my father's deep voice, echoing in my head. Then waking up to Dad's face right in mine, giving me a heart attack just about. I was fine. No permanent damage. Sam was freaked, too. He'd clearly been sobbing, I remember.

But…would he cry for me now?

After shaving, I look myself over in the mirror. Better. I look like 'me' whatever that means. I mean, I was in hell, I don't remember who I am. I mean, I remember everything, but I don't remember who…or what I even really am. Can I ever…I mean, really? People spend their lives trying to find themselves, what chance do I have? It was like…part of me was burned away with the pain. Just thinking about it makes my knees buckle, and I groan when they make contact with the hard tile. I've been lucky to stay upright for this long. Hopefully no one heard that. I have a feeling I won't be standing in the shower. Oh well. Then Sam's pounding on the door.

"I'm fine!" I snap, shocked at the venom in my own voice. At least it's clear and not so hoarse.

"You sure? Dean, open up!"

"No! I'm not wearing anything!" Not that it's mattered before. Like the one time I just opened the door to the gas station bathroom to tell him to zip it up, and found him having a vision. I don't think we've cared about seeing each other naked ever. Dad used to plunk us in the tub together when we little all the time anyway. It never mattered. Doesn't mean we don't still go out of our ways to avoid it, but still. It doesn't matter.

"Dean!" He sounds like Dad. But I don't care anymore. I went to hell, and he didn't do a thing. I didn't matter enough for him to try and help me.

"I just dropped a thing of shampoo, okay? Sam, go do whatever you were doing, and don't stand outside the door, okay?" I pause, waiting. No receding footsteps. "DUDE!" Then I hear him moving away. Waiting, I make sure he doesn't come back. Standing up, my knees already bruised. Not enough iron, I think. I'll need to watch that. Meat, it means I need more red meat in my system. Hell, I don't have anything in my system! Turning the faucet on in the tub, I'm just waiting for the water to heat up, scooping as much of my hair into the trash can while I wait. I sit, straddling the lip of the tub, leaning my back against the wall, to ease the pain from trying to support my own body. Once the water's warm, I hiss in pain when it runs over my hands, reminding me of the torments I faced for a long year. And it reminds me of the damage I've done to my hands. Tortures no one bothered to try and rescue me from. Because I became unimportant. I stopped mattering.

Hell, I never mattered. They never needed me. Or wanted me around. Amazing how being gone puts things in perspective for you. Fingering the amulet around my neck, I never take it off. And it brought me out of hell, so I guess I'll keep it on. Besides Sam gave it to me back when he loved me. I'm not really able to think straight. Thinking hurts. I can remember, but nothing feels right. I just feel empty. It's so…I feel alone. And it hurts to be alone more than anything else. Looking my body over, I notice all the places Bobby bandaged me, or stitched me up. And my hands ache from using them. But I don't really care. I need to shower, and I can always re-bandage them, or just let them alone. They'll heal just fine. Then again, I don't care if they don't. It doesn't matter. Not like they're going to keep me around, they might even send me back. Shuddering in the spasm of fear that grips my body, I pull myself upright.

The heat of the water, I'm so cold. Pulling up the little thing on the faucet, the water flips from the bath to the shower head, and I step in, almost crying out when the water hits my body. The cuts and scrapes all stinging then turning into a dull aching throb, protesting the heat of the water. It's just like being back in hell, somehow. But, at the same time, it feels so good against my skin. I'm like ice all the time, inside and out. Sammy, I'm sorry. I shouldn't be back. I don't belong. _Dead things should stay dead_, and I'm dead. I'm still dead inside Sam. I'm still dead inside. _And you don't even care_.

Grabbing a washcloth, and my soap, I start going over my raw body, working all the dirt out of my skin, trying not to retch at the brown water running off my body. I start with my arms, mindful of the stitches. I don't need to start bleeding, too. My hands hurt so bad, each movement of my fingers sends fresh waves of agony up my arms.

Washing my hair at least three times, I'm still not sure I got it clean. I still feel gritty. And the water won't get hot enough. I've got it up as high as it gets, and it's just not warm enough. I'm still cold. Rubbing hard at my legs, my ankles, because for some reason it's always dark behind the bone there, and it drives me insane. It's a good thing I've already plunked my ass down, because I might have collapsed by now. But I'm going to be standing up again soon. So I can get closer to the heat of the shower.

Well, with my limbs done I can start on my chest, mindful of the cuts on my belly and torso, wondering where the scars are. I lightly finger my collar bone, remembering a hunt. I remember being with Dad, and he was in full hunter mode, hell, I don't think he was even aware of his surroundings, really, nothing but the demon. I remember the spike of pain in my collar, and seeing the demon approaching me, and calling out to my father. He ignored me, using me as bait for the creature. Took a shot at it, missed, and it went for me, I tried to stand up and move away, and it clipped me in the head so hard…my eye…I don't like remembering this. I'd buried it way back, but everything…I got it all back in waves. It hurts so bad, things I wanted to forget. Blinking first one eye, then the other, I realize my vision…it's fine. I can see perfectly out of my right eye. When the demon hit me, it popped my eye out of the socket. And it broke my collar bone. I think Dad put my eye back…a shiver wracks my body, and I try and turn the heat up, but the dial doesn't go any higher. I wasn't able to see right out of that eye, I just…near or far sighted, I couldn't, everything was blurry. I stand up, seeking the heat, hoping that closer up it'll be hotter. I'm still a better shot than Sam. But, Dad didn't take me to a hospital. My collar bone healed wrong, leaving a lump under the skin. Fingering the bone and the smoothness, I ignore the pain in my fingers and in the raw skin of my chest, wondering if I've got the wrong side. No, both bones are smooth. Like they'd never been broken. What the hell's going on? Scrubbing at my chest with the washcloth, it's like my body's on fire. It hurts. But I just want to be clean. I don't really feel clean. And everything hurts.

The water hurts.

It's so cold, why can't it get warmer?

But I'm burning up, it's so hot I can barely breathe…Sammy…

Soon enough the skin all over my body is red, and I want to cry from the pain in my hands. The water, it's still so cold. It's like ice running over me in waves. Then everything goes black and I sink into the gentle embrace of oblivion.

--

"Sam, sit down."

"Bobby, what…?" but something in the older man's face prompts the younger to obey.

"Sam, I've been thinking. Your brother, have you looked at him?"

"Well, his tattoo's gone," Bobby raises an eyebrow, "We got…" he just pulls down his collar by way of explanation. Bobby nods, with a shrug. "And, I don't… he doesn't have any scars that I remember from hunts. Did they just fade?"

"That's what I want to talk to you about."

"It can't be that important, Bobby."

"Actually Sam, I think it is. You boys, there're prophecies about you…." When Sam looks skeptically at Bobby, the older man huffs. "The yellowed eyed demon had it out for you, and there's a demon cult hell-bent on making you it's leader, or killing you so that their leader can rise, right?" When Sam nods, Bobby continues. "Now you two have always been fighting for good along with your daddy. And when the Roadhouse burned down it left a huge lack of hunters." Bobby pauses to lift up his hat and rub at his hair and scalp before pulling it back down and rubbing at his jaw. "Now, I've always believed in Mother Nature taking care of Herself…" looking at Sam, "My mother was Wicca, and she raised me right, damn good thing, too, or none of us would be here right now, so you shut your mouth," Bobby warns.

Sam fidgets uncomfortably with his watch, before figuring it's fine. Whatever Bobby's going to tell him about Dean, it has to be good, right? Mother Nature protects the earth right? Well, more like the goddess, if Sam's knowledge about Wicca was still right.

"And I'm thinking that we saw Dean's body taken, and Sam, bodies don't last in hell. I'm thinking that Mother Nature herself brought your brother back. Gave him a new body, too." Sam rolled his eyes, then frowned and gave it some thought.

"But, that doesn't even make sense."

"Sam, look at him. He's pale, shaky, can't do anything, it's like watching a baby, and Sam, I'd know. I took care of you often enough," Bobby says, causing the younger Winchester to turn red. "His movements are jerky and limited, like he knows what he wants, but his body…it's not used to being told what to do. I dunno Sam. But it kind of destroys his Christ-figure resemblance if he was born again with a new body. I mean, hell, he doesn't even have the creases in his face from smiling anymore!" Bobby snaps. And digging his way out of the earth…it's poetic. Considering man was made from dust, and returns to dust. So, Dean dug himself out. Born again. From the heart of the world, from Mother Nature. It's really quite beautiful. And the pieces fall into place.

"Sam, you read about all sorts of lore about things being born from flowers, like Thumbelina, and that's Hans Christen Anderson for chrissakes!" Bobby shook his head in disgust. "It's a common theme, so get over your disbelief Sam," he snaps.

Sam's thoughts are interrupted the moment a second thud reaches their ears.

"Damnit Dean!" Bobby swears, hoping it's just another false alarm. But this sound was softer. More like the impact of flesh hitting something unforgiving.

--

I panic. Again. Running to the door, I'm pounding on it again, and Dean doesn't answer. "Dean open up! Stop being an ass!" The water's still running. Oh god, don't be like all those Tuesdays, I just got my brother back. Please don't put me through this again.

Bobby simply takes a paperclip and pushes it into the hole, and I can hear the push lock pop open, and I'm inside, it's hot. Too hot in here, almost like a sauna. I know Bobby doesn't care about that, but he turns the fan on, considering how foggy it is. Steam. Jerking the shower curtain back, the water's so hot it's scalding, and I yelp in pain when it touches me as I reach for Dean. His skin looks so raw, like he's burned himself, or scrubbed himself that way. Maybe both. God Dean! Turning the water off, I realize he had it up as hot as it gets.

"Dean! Dean! Wake up damn it! Dean I love you, wake up! Please wake up. Don't do this to me again! I just got you back, don't you dare die on me, you selfish bastard!"

--

With Sam freaking out, I don't really think he realizes he's talking out loud. "Sam, calm down!" I'm already pulling a towel around Dean so we can move him. Otherwise he's going to be a lot easier to drop. God his skin's raw. Why the hell would he do that? What the hell was he thinking! "Sam, stop it! You're no good to him when you're acting like this! Calm down, or get out," I add an edge to my voice and he settles, helping me lift Dean up and carry him back to the bedroom. Dean's shivering uncontrollably again, and I'm already making the motions of sedating him in hopes of stopping his body from going into convulsions. I'm too late. "Damn it Dean," then I turn to Sam, who's holding Dean's head to prevent him from hurting himself worse. "Call the hospital, we need an ambulance," I mutter. His body's bucking hard against me, and I wish he'd had the decency to do this after getting dressed. I'm sure he does these little things to just spite me, sometimes. For all I know he can't.

Sam calls, and looks up at me. "They're on their way."

"Do we have any hunting stuff out? I don't need them poking around here, and we'll use my last name, think you can handle that? Considering we're drawing them to my home, lying about my name won't do us any good," my mind's going a mile a minute. God his skin…he scrubbed most of it off, what the hell? And the burns, the water wasn't hot enough to really burn him, up until he managed to take his skin off. It's dried out and cracking some, already. Patchy. Damnit Dean, what's wrong with you? I can see blood leaking sluggishly from some patches where he'd been scraped and he scrubbed the scabs off. Probably was just trying to get clean and wasn't thinking straight. How could he? I can't begin to understand what he's been through, and I don't want to.


	8. Chapter Seven: Stages of Healing

_(A/N: I'm updating early. Basically I have a huge test tomorrow and I'm nervous, so I want something fun to come home to -ie reviews. I was gonna wait until Wed night in honour of SPN coming back, but...yeah. Wanna thank mah Beta, Merisha. As always. Check out her stuff, she's hilarious.)_

**Chapter 7: Stages of Healing **

I wake up with my body on _fire_. Something's holding my wrists down, my legs too! Oh god…oh god! Please don't! Don't hurt me! Get off, let me go! Please! I struggle, feeling my raw skin split against the restraints. It hurts. Arching my back up off the bed, I can't get away from it. And my skin, it's so much worse than the restraints, it feels greasy and dirty, and I just showered. Please, please let me go. Stop, let me go, get them off me. Please. I'm sorry. Whatever I did, I won't do it again. Please. Stop. I'm so cold. Please. No…_please_…I'm begging, look I'm _begging_, _please_…

Sam walks into the room, seeing his brother writhing in the hold of the restraints, commonly used to prevent him from harming himself worse, he can see the blood staining them, his brother's blood.

"Dean! Dean calm down!" he shouts, trying to calm down the older man, unable to do anything, because Dean's too far gone to hear his brother's pleas. Pushing the call button, several nurses rush in, considering Dean's in critical condition. More mental then physical, but all the same there are nurses on standby in case he tries to kill himself. One prepares a sedative, and it takes three more nurses to hold Dean's arm still enough –and the rest of his body, to safely inject the drug. Along with some morphine, to ease the pain. Dean had already been slathered in a burn salve in an attempt to help heal the raw skin. Bobby's currently trying to come up with a satisfactory story to explain Dean's condition, so far he's working on an explanation involving Dean spending some time in Iraq as a soldier, and losing his whole platoon. It's working, and Bobby's already trying to find all the implications and trails the doctors might try to follow, and how he's going to deflect them from finding the truth. How do you explain that Dean has clawed his way free of hell…well, he hasn't. He was brought back, but forced to crawl his own way out of the earth. A god-awful rite of passage if there ever was one.

Returning to the room, Bobby sighs, Dean's on top of the sheets, considering his skin is too raw to have anything on it. He's covered up some, but it's a relatively pointless and pathetic attempt at sparing his modesty. For one thing, Dean never had any to lose, and for another, it can't feel good, given his entire body is missing a few layers of skin. He looks like he's managed to get a very bad sunburn. Which is exactly what Bobby's passing it off as, just a sunburn. Along with the delirium being from the sun, too. The radio blares Flogging Molly's "The Light of a Fading Star" and only part of the song penetrates Dean's drug fuddled mind.

"_Oh, and I always thought…that you, you wanted me…and I always thought somehow, that you, you wanted me." _

Sam looks up hearing the mournful tune at odds with the rest of the song, and looks at his brother. Then it moves back into the previous rhythm. Sighing, he wishes he could hold Dean's hands.

--

I hate being bound, so does Dean. No one likes being tied up. And I saw Dean…god…Dean don't fight the…I carefully unbind the cuffs around his wrists and ankles, once the nurses leave, satisfied he's fine and calm again. We're not even in the normal part of the hospital; we're in the psych ward. It was so hard, considering he'd done it to himself. I can't…I just want to hold him, and cradle him against my chest like before. I find myself rocking back and forth a little, and shake my head. Next thing I know I'm going to be locked up in here, too, another one of the crazies, raving about demons.

"Sam, why don't you go get us both some coffee? I think we're going to be here a while."

--

_Are you _that _screwed in the head? I guess it's my turn to save your ass for a change. What'm I supposed to do!? You Winchesters, you're always trying to throw your lives down the pit. You're my big brother, there is _nothing_ I would not do for you. I guess that's what I do, I let down everyone I've ever loved. I could throttle you. You're my brother, and I would die for you. I just wanted you to stay a kid for a little longer. My turn to save your ass for a change._

_But you didn't. You didn't save me. You left me alone! You abandoned me! You left me…you left me to rot in hell. Left my soul._

--

Bobby looked at Dean, wishing he could just cradle the younger man in his arms. But with his skin raw…there was no point in adding to the young man's agony.

Hours passed, but they felt like weeks and yet like no time at all.

Noticing Dean stirring, Sam had gotten up to use the bathroom.

"Sammy?" his voice was a hoarse croak that made Bobby's heart ache.

"Dean, he'll be right back, okay? He's just taking a leak, he'll be right back, okay?" Bobby's voice was comforting, but anxious all the same. Dean turned his face to Bobby, barely able to keep his eyes open, jaw almost slack, as tears welled up in his eyes. Sam came in but stayed in the doorway, seeing his brother's face and unable to face him. Dean was unaware of Sam.

"He…promised…said…said he'd save my ass for a change…" Dean bit his lip, trying hard not to cry. Pursing his lips tightly he clenched his jaw. "But he didn't! He just left me…left me alone, didn't try…didn't even try! I didn't want to be brought back Bobby, I just…I just…I didn't want to go to hell!" The terror in his voice at just mentioning the place makes Bobby's stomach churn. Watching Dean, it reminds him of how badly Dean had fallen apart when Sam had died. _This is big, end of the world big. LET IT END! Haven't I given enough?! _Dean had completely lost it, but Sam, he'd healed. Well he hadn't healed, but he'd moved on, and Dean…God damn it John. You damned your son to hell the moment you first told him to protect his brother. Bobby could remember Dean's anger and pain as an almost palpable thing, the waves of anguish that had radiated from John's oldest son.

"Dean," Bobby said softly, unable to find any words of comfort. "We didn't have a body, Dean. I looked. I'm sure Sam did, when he thought I wouldn't figure it out," his voice calm and gentle, trying to keep Dean calm.

Sam stood frozen in the doorway. There was nothing he could have done. He'd tried, looked, done everything he could think of. Hell, he'd gone and killed the crossroads demon in the first place! Dean…

--

All I want to do is hold Dean, and pull John from wherever he is, and make him love his boys. "Dean…" the agony, and then the sobs. I've never heard anyone cry like that, the despair is so strong. Slipping my arms under his shoulders and gently pulling him up, "What'd you do to your wrists, you idjit?" A cursory glance shows he did the same to his ankles. I figure if it hurts him to sit up and be hugged, we'll know pretty fast. He's not doing so well at keeping his mask up. It's like he can't find it.

"They…I…restraints…" The panic in those eyes, and the fear and revulsion prompts me to pull him closer.

"Dean, it's fine. We won't let 'em, okay? But you were all set to kill yourself, it seemed. Alright? It'll be okay. They won't need to do that again, it's okay."

"I…died for Sam…Bobby. I died for him, and…he didn't….didn't even want me back," his voice breaks again, turning into sobs.

"Dean, your brother died with you, don't even say that," and there's nothing I can do but hold him. "Dean, Dean…I love you, and Sam loves you more than anything." When he shakes his head, I hear a sob from behind me, "Sam?" I forgot he'd even come back in. The boy walks slowly over to the other side of the bed, sitting down, tears streaming down his face.

"De-ean," his voice shook so badly. "Dean, I never stopped looking for a way to save you…" Pulling Dean into a hug, Sam dissolved into tears, "I never stopped looking for a way to save you!"

"You…you left me…" Something in his voice doesn't mean when he was taken to hell. "You left me, and you left dad…you never…and it hurt…it hurts so bad Sammy, I can't…I can't stop and it's so cold, but I'm burning all the time, but I'm just cold…I can't get warm! I can't…I'm so cold…Sammy, please…help me…"

"Dean, I'm here, I'm here!" Pulling his brother closer, not worried about injuring him further, it didn't matter anymore. If we couldn't do anything for his soul, there was no point in healing his body. "I'm here, Dean I won't leave again, I promise. I'll be here, okay? I won't leave you. I won't leave you, Dean." I pulled back some, giving the two their space, but I'm still part of things, god Dean. Sam tugged his coat off and pulled it around his brother's bare shoulders.

"I'm…I can't…I just…in the shower…I was just….I just wanted to be warm," his voice breaks again as he dissolves into sobs. A nurse starts to walk in, and I quickly shoo her out. Leave the boys alone.

"I went to _hell_, Sammy…it hurts…it's like…I can't…I just…all I had…I couldn't remember…all I had just…I'm not anything…I…you're my family, I'm nothing without my family…Please, don't leave me…don't ever leave me…I don't…Sam, I'm scared."

_Dad, you're scaring me. Don't be afraid Dean. Promise me you'll take care of Sam. Yeah Dad, you know I will._

--

I almost felt my heart shatter in my chest. Dean, he thought…He thought I didn't…yeah, I moved on. I've had to move on a lot. I had to move on past a mother I never knew, past Jess, the only woman I'll ever truly love, past Dad…my father. And I moved past Dean's death. But, I didn't give up on him. I'll never give up on Dean, no matter what. No matter how bad it looks. I'll never give up on Dean. I can't stop sobs of my own. "I missed you so much! Nothing's right without you, dude, you know that, you know I'd do anything for you, Dean." The way he asks me not to leave him. Dean. "I won't…I promise Dean," pulling back, I make sure he meets my eyes. It's the first time since he's come back that he's done it. "I promise you. I'll be here. Okay? We won't even split up on hunts if you don't want to, okay?" He nods, slowly at first, then a little faster, before another sob bursts from his chest. I pull him close again. "I'm here, Dean. And I'm not going anywhere. Okay. As long as you need me, and past that. I mean, what else are little brothers for? I've got to stick around and be a pain in the ass, remember?" He chuckles weakly against my chest, and nods, I can feel it.

"Dude, talk about a chick-flick moment, huh?" he gasps weakly, another sob ripping through him. I find myself chuckling through my tears, too. Lightly patting his shoulder, I know any sort of friction –like rubbing his back, will cause him untold agony, so there's so little I can do for him.

"Way to kill the mood," I tell him, rubbing tears off my cheeks with another weak chuckle.

"Next time I start crying, stab me," he asks, trying hard to stop crying, but I can tell from the way his lips tremble and his chin…pulling him to me in a hug again, "I'm here Dean, and maybe for once in your life, you could let me be here for you. Okay?"

--

I nod, sniffing hard, and trying to swallow back more sobs. It's okay. I'm safe. I'm safe now. I've got Sammy. I've got Sammy. The stupid hospital music jars me, and I realize how much I ache. "Sam?"

"Yeah Dean?"

"Where're my clothes?"

"Dude, how would I know? You rubbed all your skin off, and then burned it; they probably didn't want anything rubbing you more raw. You'd probably be thrilled to know that nurses come in every few hours and rub some sort of burn salve into your skin. Then again you've been unconscious through it every time, but I think the nurses were good enough for your tastes." Sam grins.

_Dreams are just things that you keep there inside. Bury your dreams_.

_Why do we always have to sacrifice our happiness? Doesn't Mom deserve to live her life? Doesn't Sammy deserve to be happy? Don't I deserve a family? A home? Don't I deserve to belong somewhere? To fit in. To be loved. _

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Tell me about Mom."

Sniffing once, I rub at my eyes, "She was beautiful. She had long blonde hair, and it was wavy…and soft. She always smelled like lavender, and this…this make up remover, it, it was in this container with a pink lid, and it was pink stuff on the inside, and it was this clean mild smell," I smile a little at Sam. I know I should smile. I don't know why, but I know I'm supposed to. "She was tall, I think you're taller though," of course he is. I'm taller than Mom was. Barely. I wonder how she'd take that. I was supposed to be tall. Then again Dad started letting me drink coffee around the time I was thirteen. So maybe since Sammy didn't start drinking it until later, he got tall. "And, she used to sing all the time, y'know? And Dad, he'd smile a lot, not like how you knew him. But, I'd," I pause to lick my lips and moisten them, god I'm thirsty. "I'd come home from school, and Mom'd always have a snack out. It was basically lunch, 'cause I was in Kindergarten so I was getting home in time for lunch, but being a little kid, I wasn't all that interested in food," I grin a little, Sam understands. "And school always got me all hyped up, I wouldn't stop babbling at Mom about how the day went," raising my eyebrow at Sammy's amused glance, I smile at him, "In my defense, it's her fault for asking.

"And, it'd always be something healthy, y'know rabbit food or whatever," Anything not meat or bread is rabbit food. "If I ate the healthy stuff, she always had cookies. I have no idea where they kept coming from, but I remember it was always oatmeal raisin, chocolate chip, or snicker-doodle. And Dad liked the oatmeal raisin because sometimes Mom put chocolate chips in them, and he liked the cinnamon.

"Mom, she had these, beautiful blue eyes, y'know? She looked like those paintings of angels you see, and she was so strong, Sammy. God, she was perfect." I rub at my eyes again. "And then Dad always got home from work late, because he co-owned the shop, like we found out, and so he had to help close, and he was always so happy to see me, and Mom. And later you. I remember, I remember I'd always tackle him when he came home, and…he'd sweep me up in his arms…and hold me." I feel the tears well up in my eyes again, and I'm ashamed of myself. "And he was always smiling and laughing, and he'd kiss Mom, and she'd tell him to put me to bed, and I'd always beg for him to tell stories…I bet you didn't know, but Dad, he could spin a yarn like no other, he'd get into it, and his face, he'd make all the faces and you just…I swear I have no idea if half those stories are true or not, but, yeah. He could tell stories. I don't remember the ends to over half of them, but I know how they all start. Guess I kept falling asleep."

Sam smiles at me, Bobby's sitting, listening to us. He's sitting on the bed on my right, Sam's on my left. I allow myself to lean slightly on Bobby, letting him know he's welcome. I need him right now just as much as I need my brother.

"But, he, he'd come home and pick you up, and kiss your forehead, right after he put me down, sometimes he'd pick me up so I could kiss your forehead and tell you goodnight, 'cause the slats on your crib were up so high I wasn't even close to the top. And, I could always get him to let me stay up late, and Mom'd come in, and tell him off for keeping me up, and he'd just smile and shrug, ask her if she'd like to join us. She'd just shake her hands and fling her arms up in the air in disgust. You…you shoulda seen her, in her white nightgown with her hair spilling all over her shoulders in soft curls," I barely feel the tears rolling down my cheeks. I can see them in Bobby's eyes, and I reach out one trembling hand to wipe tears off of Sammy's cheeks. I don't know why we're all crying, but, sometimes it just feels good to remember Mom.

"There was this rocking chair in your room, and sometimes, not too often, considering I was getting a little big for it and all, sometimes Mom'd pull me into her lap, and she'd sing, all sorts of pretty songs, and you were already asleep, or darn close, and I don't…she'd just rock me back and forth…Dad's a horrible singer, but sometimes you could hear him from downstairs, singing along with Mom," I grin weakly, sniffing once and rubbing more tears off my cheeks. My hands still hurt. Different bandages, I notice. Less of them, in fact a few of my fingers are splinted. Great. Just friggin' great. Bobby lightly rests his hand on my shoulders while I regain my composure. God it's hard not to cry anymore. I've got to find a way to stop. I'm not supposed to cry. And I don't really feel anymore. Not like I used to. I'm so cold. I'm like ice. My mind scrambles for something to break the silence, something I would say. Anything.

"Dude, I could use a beer, think they'll let me have one?"

"Damnit Dean," Bobby sighs. "You're in a hospital, in the psych ward, there's no way you're getting near alcohol for a few weeks at least," before I can even form a protest Bobby glares at me, and I fall silent. There's no point in arguing. Just so long as they don't leave me alone. I might forget. If they leave me alone, I might forget all the good things, like Mom, and I might only…I might only remember all the things I hate about myself. _I guess that's what I do, I let down the people I care about. _Bobby starts to stand up, and I reach out to grab his jacket, crying out from the pain in my hands.

"No! Don't leave me!"

--

The panic in Dean's voice near stops my heart. Sitting back down on the bed, Sam and I meet eyes, concerned. Dean's breathing hard and he's winded eyes a little wide. "Dean, I'm here, it's okay. I was just gonna hit the men's room, okay? Sam's here, I'll be right back, okay? Dean." I pat his cheek gently, catching his chin. I haven't done that since I found out about that god-damned deal he made. "I'll be right back." I wait until he nods slowly and releases my coat, before looking at Sam. There's more concern in his face than I'd like, but I'm just as worried. This isn't our Dean. There's flashes of him in there, but, I don't know who he is. Hell chewed him up, and he got pulled forcibly out, through the teeth, I guess. I hug him quickly, looking at his skin. Probably should call a nurse in to drug him so he can sleep and they can rub more of that stuff into his skin. It helps the redness go away, and it's easier to look at him. He kind of reminds me of a lobster with his skin flushed and raw like that. Poor kid.

--

Dean watches Bobby leave, and he looks so scared. It scares me a little, how lost he looks, "Dean?"

"Yeah?" he turns to look at me, eyebrows raised in mild confusion.

"You…you okay?"

"Yeah Sam, I'm okay. You ask me that one more time, and I'm gonna start throwin' punches," he smiles weakly, before his eyes water again, the emerald in his eyes blurred by tears. "Bobby's coming back, right? He won't be gone long?"

"Dean, he's coming back," I put all the confidence into my voice, trying to hide my concern for my brother. "Dean?" when he finally turns to look at me, I swallow hard, "What was it like?" Something changes in him. He's fully my brother again, but all the same, it's not really him. It's all the pain and hurt and fear that he's feeling, but none of the life or joy I'm used to seeing in Dean. None of the hope. And that's what terrifies me. To be human is to hope. He might not be a demon…but I don't know what he is, anymore. I just want my brother back.

He pulls his lips back almost in a grimace, but like he's going to answer me, I see his jaw clench, see his teeth, as he licks at his lips, trying to come up with an answer. "Can we not talk about that?" He tilts his head up to the side swallowing hard. "Please?" his voice a hoarse whisper.

"Sure, okay. It's okay." About then Bobby walks in and Dean just about crumples in relief.

"You boys want anything to eat?" Dean looks positively sick, and I don't really want anything either.

"No, Bobby, thanks, but we're good." Then I frown, "Dean, did you cut your hair?" He flushes slightly, and I grin a little, trying to keep from upsetting him, but I want things like they were. I know they can't be, regardless of where my brother was, it's more about how everything's changed. I've changed. "Y'know," I grin a little, my eyebrows slightly raised, "Bobby or I coulda done it for you, I mean, you got it even at least," I ruffle his hair, half expecting him to snap at me. Instead his eyes lid over. Laughing, I'm tempted to do something like scratch him under the chin just to see if he gets mad. I ruffle his hair one last time, rolling my eyes at him, before lightly patting his shoulder. "Dude. You feeling any better?" I'm concerned, considering he shivers in spurts, sometimes it stops, and other times he starts up again, almost like how he's been crying off and on the past hour. Me and Bobby included. "You want me to call a nurse? How's your skin doing?"

"Don't leave!" He looks so scared. Then again maybe part of it is just being in the hospital. Dean's not scared of anything.

"No, Dean, I'm not…there's a call button, it'll be okay…" I carefully take hold of his hand, feeling his unbroken fingers curl around mine. "You're just…your skin…why'd you do it?"

"I…it was dirty…I was just trying to get the dirt off…"

"You still cold?" I press my hand to his forehead, no temperature, he's not feeling chill either. At least not compared to me. But he's shivering again. I'm afraid to pull anything around him to keep him warm, considering how raw his skin looks. I got my first sunburn at Stanford, and I remember how much it hurt to have a shirt on over my shoulders. Jess laughed at me as she rubbed aloe into the burns, she couldn't believe I hadn't bothered with sunscreen. But, when I'd only ever been used to going out at night…There's no way anything can feel good against Dean's skin.

"Sammy," he says wearily, in that 'I can't take this weight on my shoulders' voice, "I'm always cold," his sentence ends in a whisper, and I close my eyes against a new flood of tears. Luckily a nurse walks in to check on him anyway. She's pretty. Not quite in my taste, but Dean likes brunettes better than I do. Then again, I only ever really loved Jess, and she was blonde. Dean'd tell me I'm just a picky pain in the ass.

"How're you feeling?" She asks him, pressing her hand against his forehead, I see Dean's eyelids flicker, he's exhausted. Too exhausted to flirt. I feel like an ass, keeping him awake.  
"I'm fine," he mumbles easily enough.

"Not in any pain?"

"My skin itches," he complains slightly, idly picking at some of the dried blood on his wrist. She hisses in surprise.

"What happened?" Seeing Dean's confusion, I quickly interrupt.

"He was restrained, and he…he kinda freaked out some, and so…I took them off, but he was fighting…and his skin…it's already so thin because…" well she knows what happened. "So he just…he'll be okay right? I mean you can bandage him up and stuff?" She nods, with a soft sigh, before disappearing for a few minutes and returning with disinfectant, some sort of antibiotic cream, and bandages. Quickly enough she's cleaned his wrists and ankles and slathered them in the cream before bandaging them up.

"Dude, at this rate you're not going to need clothes, they're just going to mummify you." Then I realize how morbid it sounds. "No, not like that, I mean…you'll just stay warm with the bandaging, okay?" He nods sleepily, eyelids drooping.

"Sammy?" he whispers.

"Anything you want, Dean."

"Don't leave me…"

"I'll be here the whole time, okay? But if I gotta go get something to eat or drink, don't freak out okay? I'll come back, I won't be gone any longer than five minutes, I promise." He nods again, before his eyes completely shut and his jaw goes lax. Fortunately the nurse already had him lying down. She starts checking his vitals and the medication and the IV and everything matching it up to his charts. Then she starts working the salve into his skin, hoping to soothe the irritation so he can heal without too much discomfort. Glancing at the nurse, I figure Dean'll be asleep for at least five or ten minutes. Hopefully more. Stretching out I rub the back of my neck uncomfortably.

"I…I need a walk," Bobby nods at me, and I look back at Dean one more time, before leaving the room. Going straight outside, I figure I'll circle the hospital, and go back in. But, it kills me to be in there. Kills me a little to see my big brother looking so small, thin…and scared. Dean scared. He's not supposed to be scared of anything. Hell, he tells me keeping a knife under his pillow is just precaution. Not fear. So what's he afraid of? I wish I could talk to Bobby. It'd be easier, but one of us needs to be there.

--

_I look around the classroom. Fifth period, and I'm all alone. Our desks are set up in pairs, and other students have pulled up chairs to other partnerships, all talking loudly and rambunctiously. It's so loud, and my head aches so badly. In fact, I'm sick. Every time I swallow, my throat hurts so bad my eyes water. I tried calling Dad, because I've never asked him to pick me up from school before, tried work, tried his cell. No answer, hopefully he's okay. Although that's not the reason everyone's avoiding me. For one thing, I'm the outsider, and I haven't known everyone for as long, considering with Dad moving us around every few semesters at the least…but usually my table partner's friendly. We're pretty close, I thought. I got rides home –considering I don't have a legal driver's license and I can't forge one for the school, because they check up on it. Then she had drama club after school, and I've always had hunting. Fortunately there's a lot for Dad to do around here, and a job that pays well. All the same, I'm entirely isolated. Like usual. Sammy's got classes, too. Nice thing about high school is we're in the same building, we even have the same lunch. Wish I had the Impala though, so I could take him to lunch. School food isn't too bad, but all the same, it's not so great, either. Putting my headphones in and turning on the small CD player Sam got me as a present about a year back it's Tom Russell, "The Dreamin'"_ Whiskey's the life of man/but whiskey's mostly water/and it's whiskey that fuels the workerman._ I like the guitar, the soft peals of it rising over the noise of the classroom. Looking around again, I don't really know what happened. One minute I had a good friend, in fact several in that class, and now no one wants anything to do with me. I'm invisible. I'm good at being invisible when I want to be, not knowing anyone, keeping my face down. But, this, this just hurts. Although this is what Dad wanted, didn't he? Keep us moved around so we didn't have any bonds, no one to hurt us. No Mom figures, no friends. No one to die or turn against us. I guess we've been here too long. Putting my head down in my arms, I finished the assignment in the first fifteen minutes of class. It's a class I'm good at, probably one of my best subjects. But it hurts being alone. _

Waking up, Sam's not there. The nurse is gone, and my skin feels greasy again. But it hurts less. Looking at my arms, where I'm not bandaged, the redness has faded some. I look less like a lobster. Although I still ache all over. The cuts from the rocks really throb. Looking at Bobby, I grin as best I can, "What, no morphine? What kind of hospital is this?" Seeing him grin a little at me, I also see the tears of worry in his eyes. "Bobby, I'm fine," it feels important to say that, even if it's not true. I know when I'm lying. The trick is just to make sure no one else knows. "The music's crap, there's no morphine, and I haven't noticed any hot blonde nurses in tight scrubs…dude, I gotta stop expecting those late night movies to accurately represent buffer life."

"Buffer?" Bobby looks at me like I'm insane. Maybe I am.

"That's what they call people who live the American Pie life on _The Riches,_" Bobby rolls his eyes at me, and I grin. That's all I wanted. Just things to be a little more normal. Whatever normal is, anyway. "Where's Sammy?" It's wrong without him here. He belongs here. I don't like being alone. I never have. Not…not since Mom…

"He's just taking a walk, it's not easy to stay cooped up in here," Bobby says, before realizing how guilty that makes me feel, then he quickly says "Not your fault," about as gruffly as he can manage. Nodding my head a little, like I believe him, it is a sparse miserable place.

"I'm good, let's leave."

"Dean, they won't let you."

"What? Why not? I didn't even need to be hospitalized, why the hell did you guys bring me here in the first place?"

"Dean, you were unconscious. We didn't know what was wrong with you, so don't get mouthy with me," Bobby growls.

"I was in HELL!" I roar, almost shocked at myself. But something in me doesn't care about anything anymore. I don't know why, I go from needing Sam so bad I can't see straight, and then the next thing I know I just want him gone. He left me. I don't need him, either, then. Sitting up, and coughing violently, I tug the thin blanket around my waist, and stagger into the bathroom in the room, to puke up dirt. Dirt. Yeah. Great. I barely make it, and I collapse onto my knees again in front of the cold porcelain. Bobby's trying to touch my shoulder and steady me, and I jerk away from him, almost knocking myself over. Smooth Dean, real smooth. I'm angry, and I don't know why. Rubbing at the tears on my cheeks, I'm pretty sure they're just from vomiting, my eyes always water when that happens, anyway. Bobby's talking, but I'm not listening, for all my stomach finally stops heaving pretty quick.

"Dean," his voice finally penetrates the fog I'm in. "Dean, you okay son? Dean?"

"I'm fine, Bobby," I was trying to sound controlled and harsh, but I just sound sick. My throat aches, then again, I'm not surprised at all. Everything hurts, all of me burns and at the same time freezes. The air against my skin is like ice, matching my heart, empty and unmoving. Even checking my own pulse, I still don't believe my heart's really beating, not with the way I feel. Like every good thing I've ever felt or remembered was stripped away. Anything I've ever valued about myself, or just anything I've ever valued was taken, so at first I only had the bad memories, and then it wasn't even who I had hurt, it was just the feeling. All the guilt over Sam, all the times I'd failed my father. The time I hurt Bobby, I shoved him. I shoved Bobby, told him to leave. I remember, remember how he looked at me. I couldn't remember Bobby in hell, but I could sure remember the… disappointment in his eyes, and the sadness, the pity. I could remember how guilty I felt. And that's all I had. Not how much Bobby loved me, like his own son, or how much Bobby was a father to me. Not how much I loved Sam, just how much I hated myself. And I couldn't even remember who or what I was. And they just want me to fit back into their lives, to act like nothing happened. Well, I can't. I can't just be whoever I was, because I don't know! I don't know anymore. My name is Dean. Dean Winchester, I have a brother, Sam. I know Bobby, he's been like a father to me. Whatever that means. Whatever any of it effing means!

Bobby paged a nurse, between the two of them, I guess they picked me up.

"I can walk fine!"

"Then why don't you?"

"I don't want to…just leave me alone!" The words sound childish, even to me. "I don't want you here, you and Sam, just go. Leave me the hell alone!" Bobby looks at me, and I don't care if I hurt him or not. It takes a bit, but I realize I just don't care about anyone right now. I don't even care about myself. Then again, I never have. Dad made sure of that.

"Dean, please," the nurse begins.

'Where're my clothes? I'm leaving." My voice brooks no argument. Unfortunately, nurses are used to people who want out.  
"Dean?" the woman says again, a little too calmly, "Just take it easy. We'll get you out of here as soon as possible, okay?"

Liar. She's lying. Something's wrong. I know…oh. Someone behind me. Well, damn.

--

Dean's body crumples and is caught by the male nurse behind him, fortunately as quick with a needle as I am with a gun.

"Damnit Dean." He's shifted back onto the bed, "No, don't restrain him, he'll just hurt himself…please don't," I don't think I've ever said 'please' in a hospital before. They shrug, giving me the 'it's your funeral' look. Then again I'd bet money those sedatives the guy just gave him'll keep him out a while. I can hope. When Sam comes back in, I don't plan on talking about this little episode. I don't really want to, anyway. But they're sure as hell not letting Dean out any sooner. We didn't want him in this section of the hospital, but considering he went and did it to himself…damnit Dean. His sleep's just as turbulent as his actions. And there's nothing Sam or I can seem to do to make things any better. You'd think with all that crying, something would have gotten better. But no. Then again, he is John's son. So of course nothing ever gets any better. It just gets worse.

--

Sam walks back in, slightly confused to see Dean passed out, and Bobby rubbing at his beard and giving his brother funny looks.

"Everything okay?" Shocked when Bobby startles, Sam knows instantly that something strange happened in his absence. "So, no, things are not okay," he mutters. Well, when was anything ever okay? Noting Dean's labored breathing, "Is he okay? He doesn't sound so good…" Then again Sam thinks that maybe he's just…no, he's definitely unconscious, and not up to pulling tricks like that.

--

Watching Bobby's face, I just know something's wrong, for all he won't tell me what. "Did Dean wake up?"

"Yeah, he's fine Sam. Just had something in his belly that didn't quite agree with him, alright? So stop asking," Bobby snapped. Which worried me even more. Bobby never snapped at me about Dean. He snapped at Dean about Dean, but that was different. I don't know how, but it was. Then I noticed how ragged his breathing was, Bobby's and Dean's. Bobby's eyes were overly bright…"Bobby, what aren't you telling me?" Raising my head up I know I've taken that pose where my jaw juts out a little and I'm pulling myself up as tall as I can go. Dean usually threatens to punch me in the gut whenever I do it. But Bobby, Bobby's not going to hit me. Looking at Dean, and listening to him struggling to breathe, he sounds like he has a cold or something, before he starts choking a little, and I'm trying to sit him up as he wakes up, and starts to struggle against me.

"Dean, Dean! It's fine, it's okay, dude, I'm just trying to help you!"

"I don't want your help, get off me!" Taken aback, I go cold, and move away from him, looking at Bobby.

"He woke up," Bobby rubs at his chin, Dean's glaring at me. If looks could kill. Then again he's had that death glare down ever since I could remember. Whenever he looked at Dad like that…God. Rubbing at my own chin, feeling the stubble across my cheeks and along my jaw, I haven't shaved in a while. I probably look like crap. Man, we gotta get out of here. Dean's never done well in hospitals. "Dean, I'm your brother…"

"Yeah, fat lot of good that's done me!" he snaps, searching the room for something. It takes me a while to realize he's looking for his clothes. Getting up, he's shaky, and keeps rubbing at his throat like it's hurting him. He's leaning on things heavily, and I can tell from the way his weight transfers from his arms to his feet that he's in pain.

"Dean, why don't you sit down, huh?"

--

I turn on Sam, hating how much taller he is than me. "Don't you even dare to try and tell me what to do!" My voice is pure venom, and for once I'm pleased at the steel in it, and the pain in Sam's eyes. Now you know how it feels. Part of me hates myself for this, but it's like a train wreck. They don't just stop, and when the train finally stops moving, there's a hell of a mess to clean up. Problem is, am I the mess? Or the train? Or worse, am I the car on the tracks? More terrifying, what if none of it even matters? What if Sam doesn't care, what if he just abandons me. Like he did before. With Stanford. What if I'm not worth it to him? Well I don't give a damn. Not anymore. It hurts too much to have to constantly worry about everything, and keep everything together. How about someone else friggin' keeps it together, so I don't have to?! His hand on my shoulder, I twist, knocking his arm free and swinging my arm. Satisfied with the connection, my hand throbs like a mother. I'm surprised I managed to get any force behind that blow, much less connect. Part of me is so satisfied. The other part of me just wants to die.

"Don't touch me, okay? Don't try and act like you care alluva sudden, okay?" I don't know where the words are coming from. I want them to stop. Bobby's moving, angry, and scared. Scared? Of me? No…Bobby…please…I don't, I just want…what the hell am I doing? I'm sorry…I'm sorry.

--

Dean's eyes roll up into his head, and Bobby barely catches him before he hits the tile. Struggling to pull myself up, I know I'm not all that hurt. Dean probably hurt himself worse punching me in the jaw. Rubbing at my chin, he just reacted. Like a caged animal, there was enough force behind it, but it was instinct. When Dean wants to hit someone in the face, they don't just get back up. What the heck is going on? "Bobby…" then again, what do I say? There's nothing to say.


	9. Chapter Eight: All Hell Breaks Loose

_(again thanks to my beta Merisha (go read all her stuff) and to all of you who consistently review. It's the most helpful thing in the world. In fact it's the only reason I keep writing. And thanks to all you who alert and favourite this. I'd love to send individual messages, but I am so beyond too lazy. :p Any medical errors are my own, and I wasn't trying to be all that concerned with it. Frankly, I believe that going to hell justifies all my errors and improbabilities because hey...maybe it happens, yeah? lol. Enjoy.) _

**Chapter 8: All Hell Breaks Loose**

The monitors beep steadily, showing Dean's heart beating strongly, he's still unconscious, and more heavily medicated than before. Passing out again didn't exactly make his case of wanting to leave any stronger. But at least he looks peaceful. Probably just the morphine.

"Y'know, you think…you act like we didn't care you were gone. Like it didn't affect us, or something. You just…you don't get it, do you? Dean, you're my brother. And, I'm…things aren't right when you're not around, but yeah, I moved on. But I _never_ stopped searching for a way to free your soul.

"And you, you _lie_ there, in that bed, and you act like I didn't care. Like Bobby didn't care. We did, and we do. You think it didn't _hurt_? I lost everyone Dean! I lost Mom, I lost Jessica, I lost Dad, and then I lost _you_! How the _hell_ do you think I was feeling?! Did you even give a damn?! NO! You just, you went ahead and made a deal. You lost Mom, and you lost Dad, too! And yeah, it sucked that Jake came up and stabbed me, but hell, Dean! You coulda moved on and had a life! You could have done whatever you wanted! I kept hunting, I didn't go and make a deal! You remember how _you _felt when Dad did the same thing to you!? Calling that man a coward, saying that he just traded his soul because he was too scared to keep living on his own! That he didn't deserve anyone, and he deserved to die! Can't you remember that?! How the hell do you think I felt?! Did it even matter? Then you went and copied that guy, after you got him out of his deal…Was it _me_ you made that deal for?

"Said you couldn't lose me. Didn't know, I get it, man, I know Dad was always telling you to protect me, take care of me. I never needed it. Not like what you gave. Yeah, you've given everything for this family. Not like I don't know that, Dad knew, too. He just didn't care. I cared, why do you think I kept telling you I didn't need you to look out for me? Went off on my own. Hell, Dean, when it was Gordy who had you hostage, I got you out on my own. Without any help from you. And I stopped you from killing him. Because then you'd've been just like him. You'd've been a monster, too. And I know, I _know_ you went to hell, I get that you can't like, get better after that. But you…you could at least _try_. You could let Bobby and me, we'd do anything for you. Anything to make this easier, but you won't even talk about it!

"You won't even look at us, Dean…Maybe you _don't_ owe us anything, you don't have to look at us, or me. You don't have to meet my eyes…hell, you don't even have to care about me anymore, I'd get it. I would. But you won't say _anything_! You really so far gone that there's nothing left to save?

"I can't believe that, Dean. I won't. You're my brother my only family, and I'm going to save you.

"I mean I never stopped trying! And yeah, it's different now! I mean, I'm not trying to release your soul or anything now…I would have brought you back. Anything. Crazy Greek zombie rituals, anything for you. And you _know_ that! Damn it…I'd die for you. I'd take your place! I love you…and…doesn't that mean anything to you? Doesn't that mean anything anymore?" The young man's head bows as his shoulders shake in silent grief. Unheard, and unseen.

--

Opening my eyes, my head aches, my throat aches, and I can't breathe very well through my nose. It's like I have a cold. Son of a bitch. I don't need this right now. Shivering from the cold, I look around. It's dark. No Sam, no Bobby. I knew…figured they'd leave. Then again I haven't been behaving so great. But, hell, I didn't figure they'd really abandon me. I gotta find some clothes and get out of here. Turning the machines off as I slide out of bed, I carefully slip the IV out of my arm. I can barely stand. I almost hit the ground again. I'm so sick of face planting. Oh, good there's water. I've been dying of thirst. It takes a few tries before I can grab the cup to pick it up and drink it, and I end up spilling most of it down my front anyway. The water's so cold against my skin, shivers rip through me and I almost fall over.

I'm tired, and I ache. Still. And I'm alone. Sam promised…yeah, because promises mean so much. Like Dad. Yeah. Rubbing at my eyes, I wonder how long I can wander around before finding clothes, or getting caught. I'd really rather find clothes than get caught wandering around naked in the psychiatric ward. Because, y'know, I don't seem crazy enough. Yelling at the only people I love, telling them to go away. I trip on something, and land flat on my chest and face. Feeling blood in my mouth, I split my lip. Not that I care. I let it run down over my chin, spitting a few times on the floor trying to get the taste out of my mouth. At least it's warm. Not like the water. I hate that taste. It's too familiar, but it burns my mouth all the same. Coppery and thick.

"Son of a bitch!" twisting around, I look at whatever I tripped over. Too small to tell. A book, and Sam's jacket. Great, I have his jacket. Couldn't he have left me some freakin' pants!? For someone so damn smart, he's sure a total dumb-ass. Picking up the book, I shake it, wondering if he's left a message. Nothing comes loose from the pages. Nope. Nothing, then I look at the cover. N.I.V.? What the hell does that mean? It's the NIV book…with a funny…gilt embellishment on the cover above it. Weird, it looks sort of like a cross in the dark, but I can't tell. Moving to the window, holding it, I flip it open, "Old Testament" yeah…friggin' bible. I suppose it's poetic. I was in hell, I'm out, and a bible trips me up. Although Sam left it. What the hell? With his jacket. Well it is freezing. Pulling his oversized jacket over my shoulders, I settle back onto the bed. It's so hard to get my body up again from the floor, forget move around. I feel a little like how Frankenstein must have, trying to figure out how his limbs worked all over again. Maybe some male nurse'll walk by and I can brain him with the spine of the book and take his clothes and get the hell out of here. In the mean time, I flip through it trying not to hurt my hands and trying not to tear the pages, noting some funny colored text in the dark, and it takes a bit, but I realize it's highlighted. Well, no point in pretending to sleep. I'm not tired.

I drag myself up from the bed again with a groan. It hurts so bad, just standing up and sitting. I'm already shaking, and fighting my muscles. Staggering across the floor, why the hell is the light switch that far away?! Flipping the light on, I start going over all the highlighted text, trying to search for some sort of message from Sam. It was wrapped up in his coat. It has to be from him. Checking my door, it's locked. I'm locked in. Oh god, I'm locked in…tempted to start pounding on the door and screaming, I glance at the book in my hands. I force air into my lungs, for all my nose is plugged, and I stagger back to the bed, collapsing face first into it panting. Eventually I can push myself up again, I hope it only took a few minutes. Settling back onto the bed, I have no choice but to lean against the wall to stay upright. The muscles in my legs spasm from being worked too hard. God, what would Dad think? What would Sammy…I'll search for a message, and then I can freak out. I want to leave. Windows. I don't wanna go outside naked. It's cold...and if you've ever seen Seinfeld…coldness and nudity don't go together well for men. Although maybe it's just George.

That guy has all the bad luck in the world.

All these stupid bible verses about hell, and the fire. And repentance, and being saved. C'mon Sammy, what was I supposed to find? What's this crap even mean? 'Snatch others from the fire' Sam, I don't get it. The verses? The numbers? They're not coordinates, so what…a time? Time and date? It doesn't make any sense.

After a while, I'm pretty sure he was just preaching at me. That's so something he would do. Like the friggin' bible is going to do anything to help me! Throwing it with all my strength across the room at the closed door, it hits with a satisfying thud. Panting, and scared, I pull his jacket tighter over my chest, shivering. My body's worn out from just standing up the few times it took to turn on the light and check the door handle. Not to mention how worn out I am from the delicate operation of just turning pages. And throwing the bible across the room. My arm and shoulder ache from just that simple motion. Sitting up, even, wears on me. And I'm still so thirsty. But, most of the water's on the floor. I'm locked in, I can't get more water. I'm so cold. Slipping my arms into the sleeves of the jacket, I pull it tightly across my front. Why can't I stop shaking?

"You promised you wouldn't leave…" my voice is barely a whisper. I feel the tears welling up in my eyes as my vision blurs, and my futile attempts at blinking them away only make them run down my cheeks. Holding back sobs, I start checking Sam's pockets. Empty. Not a single thing in them. Nothing. Sam. You promised. Then again Winchester promises have always meant so much. "Angels are watching over you" right. Because they were. When you died, Mom, they were watching alright, but they weren't doing anything. They can watch. There, that's all they do. And Dad…yeah, I don't know what you were talking about when you said you wouldn't abandon us. 'Cause I'm pretty sure that's all you did. You kept leaving us in different ways.

You emotionally left us. You physically abandoned us to go off on your own. And then, then you really made sure we'd lost you.

Sniffling because I can't breathe, I look around. No tissues. Bathroom might have something. Toilet paper, well it'll work. Better than paper towels or napkins, I guess. At least my nose has been plugged up since I woke up, so it's not from the tears. Small blessing. Well, if blessings existed. Blowing my nose several times, no matter what I can't seem to clear up my nose. I can't breathe! And it hurts to breathe through my mouth, my throat is so raw. Why does my throat hurt? Nasal drip, probably. Lovely. So, I'm sick, naked, and completely abandoned.

Last time this happened I was drunk, and it was my motel room, and the girl just woke up first. So, this really isn't quite as good a situation. No TV in the room. Nothing to do. Other than look at that stupid bible. Well, y'know what?! If there ever is or was a god, he's sure as hell just sitting up there on his stupid cloud throne or whatever watching. So, if he's there, it's not like he cares. He's… 'god works in mysterious ways' my ass! The reason people say 'mysterious' is because they mean 'god works in…oh, wait, he doesn't do _anything_!' They're just making excuses for a lie that they believe.

"Where were you when Mom died?!" I shout, unable to contain my fury anymore. Besides, there's no one here to hear it. "Where were you when Jessica burned to death!? Or when Andy died?! Or when Eva's fiancé bit the dust?! Huh?! Where the hell have you been!? Or all those other people? Their moms, their families, what about that poor nut-job we found who got abused by all those people? Max, you remember him? Huh? His own _family_! Did he really deserve to be so messed up he blew his own brains out?

"What about Dad?! How come you never did a damn thing for us! Mom believed in you, and you just let her die! Is it some sick joke for you? Is it funny!? Funny to play with all those people who place all their hopes and dreams in your hands?! Just so you can close those hands and crush everything inside? Is it really how it works?! My dad goes to hell for me?! Isn't that like what your own Jesus did?! Huh!? Didn't he die so all of us could live, isn't that your big live-saving truth in your stupid book!? Yeah, too bad it doesn't mean anything, does it?! It's all some lie…your damn Jesus didn't save my mom…didn't save my dad…didn't save Jess, couldn't save Sam…couldn't save me…"

The orderly who came into the room, wondering why there were no machines on in the room where she knew there was a patient found him on the floor, wrapped up in an oversized coat, sobbing brokenheartedly.

--

The soft peals of "It's not Easy" by Five for Fighting accompanied Sam into Dean's room, where he found his brother dressed. Well, not his own clothes, in the typical hospital wear.

_I'm more than a pretty face beside a train/and it's not easy to be me/wish that I could cry/fall upon my knees/find a way to lie/'bout a home I'll never see/it may sound absurd/but don't be naïve/even heroes have the right to bleed/I may be disturbed/from what you can see/even heroes have the right to dream/and it's not easy to be me _

The song seems somehow fitting to Sam, sighing at his brother's appearance. Haggard, exhausted. Battered. And absolutely terrifying to Sam; hopeless.

--

Walking in, I can see the bible on the floor, near the doorframe. Thrown, clearly. Taking a deep breath, at least he's got clothes. Hopefully things'll be less awkward, I find myself sort of jerking my head to the side and pulling my lips back in a grimace. Dean's looking out the window. Probably trying to figure out what Steve McQueen would do to get out. Then again, maybe not. I'm afraid to touch him, even say his name. After his outburst. The nurse said it was a good thing I was here. He hadn't done too well last night, she said. Turned off the machines, pulled the IV out. Said she'd found him crying. Did she have any idea how badly that hurt? If he had to cry…he shouldn't have been alone. But I had to leave. They wouldn't let me or Bobby stay. Didn't matter I'd promised. Didn't matter he was unstable. They heard what he'd said, knew he didn't want us there then, but…what if he woke up, and I was gone? I'd promised to be there. I'd been sitting in the lobby for the past half hour, waiting for visiting hours to start, so I could see my brother. Bobby's not here, but he'll be coming later. Some clothes for Dean, possibly something to eat or drink that won't be as disgusting as hospital food. Dad's journal, considering Dean used to carry it around all the time. Things to help him remember who he was, and…what he meant to us. And still means to us.

He turns to look at me, and his eyes won't meet mine. But I can see the dull green, dead and lifeless…like there's nothing there behind them. Like green bottle glass. Empty. "Dean…look, before you say anything, they made us leave, Bobby and I…visiting hours…" I just…I want him to smile at me. Shrug it off, tell me I'm an ass, yell at me. Curse me. Say he hates me. Say he loves me. Tell me to go to hell, tell me to die. Beg me to stay. Anything. I want my brother. I went long enough without him. I can see the tear tracks down his cheeks. His head's at that angle…the angle it only ever has when he's sick, almost like he can't quite keep his head up, but at the same time, it's almost like he's looking at me funny. I hate that look. It always scares me a little. "Dude, I'm here. I've been waiting here for forever and they wouldn't let me in."

"They lock the doors at night."

"What?"

"They lock us in at night. So we can't get out."

"Dean…" I can't put enough of an apology into my tone. I know how much he hates that. Small spaces, restraints…locked doors. He can't stand being trapped. "Dude, I stayed as long as they would let me, and I've been here, waiting for them to let me in…I tried. I've been here. I spent most of the night in the waiting room. Some of it in the Impala." He doesn't nod, nothing. "Bobby's coming with some food, and more clothes for you. Like the Zeppelin t-shirt, and my sweats…considering jeans…probably…well, not all that comfortable. Remember…we fought that lake monster with Dad? We went to sleep in our jeans…when they were still wet and everything, after trekking like a mile to get back to the car…we were so raw…" no smile, nothing. That story always made him laugh. Just the memory of it, and how stupid we'd all been. And how we'd been complaining about how badly chafed our legs had all been. Dad, too, and how hard Dean'd laughed, hearing Dad complain about anything, and just…we'd all laughed at the time, and we still laughed about it. Well…Dean and I.

Then he sneezed, and scared the hell out of me, I swear I must have jumped six feet into the air.

Holding his head in his hands, "My head just exploded," he mumbles weakly, rubbing at his hair a little. "They…there's no water running in the shower," he mumbles to me. Like I can fix it. Well, I'd better be able to do something, because I'm starting to look pretty useless. But it's not like I trust him on his own in a shower, considering what happened last time. I don't want to think about how we're going to deal with that.

"We'll get you out of here soon, okay? Bobby and I, we're working on it. I promise you."

"Like you promised to stay?" There's no edge to his voice, and that makes it hurt even worse. He's just asking to ask. Not even trying to make me feel guilty or make a point. He just thinks it's a valid point, and that hurts.

"Dean, I tried!" my voice breaks, and I have to stop, before I start crying. It's not going to fix anything. All I've done lately is cry. And look where it's gotten us.

"Yeah, well not very hard…"

"You're the one who couldn't pick the lock and get out…" I'm horrified at the snap in my own voice.  
"What, get out without any clothes?" There's some fight back into his voice. Just a tiny bit of snappishness. Something that's like Dean. But I don't want to fight with him. I just want things fixed. The way they were. I mean, yeah we bickered, but…not like this. We weren't…things weren't…"You still cold? I can go get you a blanket…"

"Just want to leave?"

"What? No! I didn't even –NO!" I'm not trying to leave. Dean, don't you get it? I'm trying to be here for you. I'm trying to take care of you. Pulling the sheet off the bed, I fold it in half, draping it over his shoulders and pulling it snuggly –if gently, around him. "You don't look so good, you okay?" The look he gives me makes me cringe. "You know what I mean," I whisper. Where's Bobby? He twists away from me to blow his nose, something I ignore, up until I hear him swear softly. Getting up to move in front of him, his nose is bleeding. Pushing the call button, I roll my eyes. If I had access to ice, I wouldn't involve anyone. Or tissues. Seriously, dude, toilet paper? Better than nothing, I guess. Considering his hands aren't working so well at stopping the blood.

"Dude," I'm tipping his head back just a little, considering I don't need the blood going down his throat –he'd just puke it up, and I pinch the bridge of his nose, hard. He bats at my hands feebly, but he's really not up to fighting with me. Dean's just worn down. What he needs is like a week's straight sleep. Without dreams. But that's not happening. Nurses come in, "I just need some ice, and a box of tissues," and clean clothes and new bedding, I guess. Dean's hand grips my wrist, his nails seeking the tendons in my forearm, before I take his hand and hold it, not trying to hurt him. Considering it's a wonder he can do anything with any of his fingers. And he doesn't have any nails anyway. So he can't hurt me, I'm just afraid he'll hurt himself. His other hand is trying to stop the blood from getting everywhere, but there's just too much of it. He's really a bleeder when it comes to his nose. I remember he used to get bloody noses all the time in winter, because it was so dry. Dad used to get pissed, because everything would be fine, and Dean'd sneeze, and blood was everywhere. On hunts it at least drew the monsters to us, and it never really hurt Dean to fight with blood running over his face. We're both used to it, by now. The nurses leave, and one of them comes back, holding a pile of bedding, clothing, and the requested ice and tissues in her arms. Dumping them on the bed, she hands me the ice, which I put over Dean's face, more to block the view of his eyes, and how dull they are than anything else. Well, the ice'll slow the bleeding considerably.

"Y'know," I tell her, "The shower water doesn't work, so he can't get cleaned up?" No response. "Well, is it on purpose then?" I ask, confused. What the hell?

"Considering the burns were self inflicted while he was showering, and he won't submit to a mental evaluation, yes, the water is off for a reason," she says, a little snippy, too.

--

It hurts, he's pinching too hard! And I'm not strong enough to push him off. I can't wait for Bobby to walk in, and wonder why Sam's hands are covered in my blood, why my face is coated in the red stain, dripping down my neck. Why a nurse is in there, and where all the blood is even coming from. Wondering what happened.

Actually, I can wait. I don't care.

Struggling against his hand again, I can't get him to let go. His stupid telling me off doesn't help, either.

"You bleed like crazy, this is the only thing that's ever worked, you didn't fight Dad," he points out, so reasonable sounding. Well Dad was never this rough on my face. Well, he did hit me the once, but that's a little different. I took the slap meant for Sammy.

Just like I'm the one who went to Stanford and watched Sam. It hurts, it's like looking through a piece of glass, and not being able to do anything. I felt like a zoo animal, cooped up in the car, looking around and trying to understand what was going on around me, and I was a completely different species from everyone. I didn't watch Sam, I watched the college. Watched for demon signs. It was how Dad got rid of me when he was sick of me, I guess. But everyone was so happy. I wanted to put my hand through the glass and feel some of that. Feel what it was like to be normal, have a mom, a dad who loved you. I wanted to mean something to someone, the way all these groups of students walked around together, friends. I'd had Sam, but he left. Didn't have a fight, didn't tell Dad. He just said the night before he left, "I got accepted to Stanford with a full ride," like he expected praise. Not from our Dad. "We're moving out to Texas for a hunt, make sure you're packed," was all Dad said. I remember how much that hurt. Couldn't he have at least been proud? But he was never proud of us. We were just constant disappointments to him. Sure, he said he loved me. Before he died. He died for me, but it was easier than living, wasn't it? It's always easier to just roll over and die. That's why so many people kill themselves. But when he was alive, and we were…I thought we were a family, but seeing all those Stanford kids, they were families. What Sam, Dad, and I had, we had shared blood, and that was it. Blood and painful memories.

We haven't been a family since Mom died. I miss her so much, it's a constant ache in my chest. I'd do anything to feel her hand on my cheek one more times, her arms wrapped around me, and just knowing I was safe. Just once. One more time, and having it be real. Not a djinn, not some fake fantasy…I want my mom. It hurts so bad to remember her, and my memories get worse all the time, I keep losing things. Just like when Sam went to Stanford, I couldn't remember all the things I used to. I didn't have anyone to talk to. It wasn't like Dad was ever a conversationalist. No, I was as effectively alone as if I'd been locked up in a glass cage. That's what the Impala is, a cage. One my dad gave me, to keep me far away where he wouldn't have to share his life or his affections with me. He got his own car.

Was I really that bad? That worthless to him that he couldn't stand to be near me? He fucking went to hell rather than stay alive and be with Sam. Or me, he traded that. I might have recovered, or they could have done something else. He didn't even look, he wanted to die from the start. It was never about me. And when I came to Stanford for Sam…I just needed my brother. But he had this life set up for himself, one that didn't include me. And when he saw me, he was disappointed. I wasn't good enough. It wasn't that he was mad at me, it was that I repulsed him, I was Dad's little soldier, I was nothing. I was bringing back a life he didn't want anything to do with, I was a reminder of everything he hated, so he hated me.

Has he ever stopped?

Sam carefully released his grip on the bridge of my nose, his hands covered with my blood. Not unlike my own.

"Dean, I think you can drop your hands, too," he tells me, his voice cautious, like I'm some sort of stupid animal. Or maybe he's afraid talking loud will make my nose bleed again. All the same I carefully stop trying to curb the blood flow with my hands, the bandages wrapping them –and the splints, completely soaked. Ruined, too, probably. Sam touches my face, getting it stickier with my blood, and I grimace.

"The bleeding stop?" I can't tell, I can taste the blood in my mouth, the back of my throat, feel it all over my lips and chin. Stretching my head up, it's covering my neck, too.

"When you bleed, you really bleed, don't you?" the nurse comments, trying to tease me, I guess. I'd forgotten she was there, which meant I jumped pretty bad when she said that. Which meant Sam gave me one of his 'I'm examining your soul' looks that he's so good at. I hate those looks like no other. I think he knows more about me than I do, when he looks at me like that. The nurse also looks at me funny.

"I just…forgot you were, here, too," I mutter, hoping it'll stop anyone asking me more questions, or worrying about me. I don't know what story Bobby and Sammy fed these people, but I don't want to come across as crazy. I'm not crazy. I'm not. I can't be. I'm not crazy. I'm not!

"Here, Dean, I'll find a washcloth or something for you face, why don't you just ditch the shirt?" Sam asks, leaving me to struggle to get it off, the white stained crimson. When the blood dries it'll be that red-brown color, like dust. Death. It'll be the color of death against the perfect white. Shrugging out of the shirt it catches on the stitches in a few places and hurts. Although I manage to get it off okay. Looking down at myself I idly smear some of the blood that dripped into my chest. I'm not sure if I'm trying to get it off, or spread it out. I really don't know.

I'm _not_ crazy.

When Sam comes back, he settles his hand on the back of my head and starts wiping at my face like I'm some toddler who plunged his face into the cake. Sam did that once, it was amazing. Dad was…well, he tried to be angry, but all of three seconds later he was laughing as hard as I was. Only I'd had a mouthful of pop, which came out of my nose. "Gerroff!" I don't need him wiping my face for me. I'm not five.

"Dean, you can't see your face, and quite frankly, last time we let you clean yourself you passed out." Glaring at him over the washcloth, he lightly holds it over my eyes for a few seconds until I'm about to kick him in the balls. Fortunately for him, I'm slow, and he's also one step ahead of me. I'm _so_ getting him back for this later. Well, a part of me wants to. Most of me just doesn't give a damn. When he's done babying me, I cross my arms over my chest and continue to glare at him. It's really all I can do. He smiles at me, like everything's okay, and ruffles my hair, I don't even try to react, because for whatever reason, my muscles don't respond to my commands fast enough. I hope it's just all the drugs they're pumping in me. He also rubs at some of the blood I smeared on my chest, avoiding my arms and hands as best he can.

"Sam, I just wanna go home…Sammy, please…" there, that should win me an Emmy. I even got the tremble down in my voice.

"Dean…" he sits next to me again. Bad move….for him. "You can't. We want to take you home, but, we can't." Wrong answer, and I shove him off the bed. Nurse wanted us up anyway, so she could put new sheets down. Standing up and trying to stay up, I don't even look at him. Don't care if he's hurt. I don't care about anything.

Looking up at Dean from the floor, I grin a little, because if I acted shocked or hurt, it's just what he wants me to do. He goes from being sullen, to angry, to being my brother, to being an emotional wreck. Then again, most people have all sorts of sides to them, Dean's just usually a lot more careful, keeping his game face on. I've seen him really upset once, and not yelling. _"You wanted to know how I was feeling. Now you tell me, what can you _possibly_ say to make that alright?"_ And there wasn't anything I could do. Other than be there, and understand. I could cut him some slack, because I understood better, I could try and help him with that burden he put on himself. But this, are there even words for him to describe how he's feeling? Probably not. But, he's my brother, and I'm just going to have to keep asking until he tells me. I've told him that, and it annoyed him, but he told me in the end. We'll get through this. We're a family. And we're Winchesters. We're like…well, we're tough, we survive everything. Watching him, I wait until the nurse leaves, the bed all set up again. There's really nothing I can do. Actually, I can make him mad. I wait for the nurse to leave.

Catching his chin, I make him tilt his head up, meeting my eyes, and acting like I'm checking his nose for more blood.

"Let go before you lose that hand." Dropping my hand to my side, I steel myself for something I might regret the rest of my life, or something that might save my brother.

"Dean? What the hell is your problem? Huh? You got out of hell. You got out! No one's supposed to get out alive, remember? You've heard of _Dante's Inferno_, haven't you? You're not a demon, you were only there for a year, get the hell over yourself! Dad made it through, and he escaped on his own. You're acting like the worst thing in the world happened to you, and maybe it did, but hell, it ended pretty quickly! It wasn't like you had to stay here, hurting every single day because there was nothing you could do for the one person in your life that matters the most to you. So y'know what Dean?" I get up in his face, "Get over it." I see it in his eyes, I've set him off. Good. Because right now all I want to do is go and kill myself for saying those things to Dean. He doesn't deserve it. Sometimes I wish we could just talk to each other like normal people, without me constantly having to piss him off to get anything out of him. _I just want you to be honest with yourself! I'm dealing with Dad's death, are you!?_

He pulls himself up, and looks at me in a way that he can never take back, a look I'll never forget as long as I live.

"How dare you?" his voice is so contemptuous. "You think you know anything about what it's like?! You think it's just something you can get over!? It's _hell_ Sammy, I know you think you've had it rough, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry Jess died and left you all alone, and no one loved you like she did, I'm sorry you never met Mom, but at least you don't have to go every single day of your life knowing how things could have been! You don't have to miss her, and miss how Dad used to be, you grew up into this! It was easy for you, and you just blew it off, let things go, didn't want this life, blew me and Dad off all the time. We didn't mean anything to you, just your damned books! Your grades, and playing soccer. And then you'd go and act like we didn't care about you! Like we didn't understand you, Sammy! We understood you just fine, you just couldn't be bothered to understand us! We loved you, Dad and I. We sacrificed a lot for you. If I'd been just me and him, I never would have graduated because all that mattered was finding what killed Mom! But you don't know what it's like, missing her with this ache in your chest, just wishing someone would come and pick you up, and tell you things'll be okay. Hell, you had Jess though, didn't you? I bet she was there for you, huh, Sammy? Listened to all your little problems. But you act like I can't miss Mom because I was so young when she died, right? Well it's not just Mom I miss! I miss that whole time, that life, knowing that I had something, I had a family, and a mother and a father and a baby brother! Just because I was young doesn't mean none of mattered! Doesn't mean it can't still hurt every single day with every beat of this damned heart in my chest!

"Who was ever there for me? Who was there for Dad, huh? Is it really that big a wonder we keep killing ourselves to get away from you? NO matter how much we give it's never enough! I gave Dad everything, my hopes, my dreams, I gave him my life. And yeah, he killed himself for me. It was suicide! And don't act like you weren't thinking the same thing! But y'know what? I gave my life for you, I spent my whole life protecting you! Did you know that I was so scared I'd lose you, just like I'd lost Mom, that I'd crawl into your damn crib to watch over you at night? Huh? I was _four_. And all your crap about how I was just Dad's puppet! You think I didn't love him? It's what a good son is supposed to do, Sammy! You're supposed to obey, it's in that damn stupid bible you left in here, and you're the prayin' one, right? It's in the bible!

"You, you got to have a life! Me, all I've ever had was a whole bunch of people who can't wait to get away from me, like I'm carrying some sort of plague! Like I'm a disease that they can't find a cure to, so they just give up and move on. That's all I've ever been to Dad, something to use, yeah, I was like…I was just a tool to him, something to kill demons, something to watch out for Sammy, so he didn't have to! Like I never had hopes and dreams of my own. Because, I'm Dean, right? I'm the older one, I'm the obedient one, I'm the good little soldier! I'm the one you can ignore because I'm nothing, and I _know_ it, too!

"I'm not stupid Sammy! I've never been stupid! Just because school wasn't my only priority in life doesn't make me any less intelligent than you! Just because I didn't ever have a Jessica, well I never ran away and abandoned all my responsibilities! I never gave up on my family, or decided I was too good for them! I was always there, I was the one everyone depended on, and used!" the tears flow thick and fast down his cheeks, but he's not even aware of them. The poison he's venting has been building up for 24 years, and it's not going to just magically get better.

"And I was in hell! That doesn't mean anything to you? Ever occur to you there's a reason only demons get out? And they're always warped and insane and serial killers?! Huh Sam?! Maybe I outta go nuts and kill you! Considering that's really all that's left. That's what hell is, you selfish bastard! All you remember is all the things you hate about yourself, every single bad thing you've ever done, every single time someone's looked at you in disappointment, like Dad. I can remember that clearer than anything! And in hell, you don't remember you had a father or a mother or a brother, all you remember is that feeling you had in your whole heart when they looked at you a certain way, or when you knew you'd failed them yet again! How many times do you think I had to relive you dying without even knowing who you were, just how I felt, how worthless I was…how I knew I'd failed everyone I'd ever cared about because I was just a few minutes too late in getting to you.

"Y'know what Sam? Go _fuck_ yourself! Let's see how you'd handle things in my shoes! A father you love more than anything, who can't be bothered to even pretend to love you back! A brother you'd die for, did die for, who can't bother to be grateful, hell it doesn't matter to him because, well, it was a mistake, and he's full of self-righteous anger because you went and gave up all you had because you loved him. That was a mistake. And it's not something anyone thinks was a good idea. Maybe it wasn't! Maybe it was a mistake to love him so much you wanted to die instead of live without him! But what was I supposed to do!? What'm I supposed to do without you, huh? I was supposed to protect you! Dad never even had to tell me, and I knew I had to. I just wanted you to be a kid, I tried to protect you from Dad all the time. You even notice? No. And if you did, it sure as hell didn't matter to you!

Or the way you act about how I go out with some girls. How it's meaningless! Well what do you think I'm ever gonna have? Never occurs to you I'd like a family of my own, a son, or a daughter, a wife. Someone I'd love the rest of my life someone to actually love me back! But no, you're the only one who's allowed to feel that way, so me, there's something wrong with me because I think even one night with a girl is better than nothing! It's all I'm ever going to get, isn't it? All I'm good for, living this god damned life!

"You're all I've ever had Sammy! What was I supposed to do without you? Huh? I'm nothing without you…you don't think that bothers me? Like it hasn't always? But you're my family, you're the only person who hasn't given up on me…and then you did! You just…you just stood back and let me die…you let my soul stay there! Yeah, it was only a year, but you think time matters!? Screw you! How about I send you there? Huh? You can feel what it's like, just for a few minutes, you can feel what it's like to be me. Know how worthless you are, and how you don't have an identity because you don't matter. Everything you've ever been proud of about yourself, any value you've ever had is gone, and you're left with all the self hate you've ever had, compounding itself along with the physical agony of whatever it is down there that hurts so bad!

"That weight on my shoulders, trying to keep our family together, how do you think I feel when I failed! And it was all my damn fault! It's my fault Dad died, I'm the one who ruined our family! After all my work to keep you two from fighting, trying to keep us together, trying to keep Dad off your case, trying to keep you from getting on Dad's…and I'm too slow to react, and then we get in a car wreck because I'm hurt. I'm the reason everything fell apart. So I failed my family again! I don't deserve to have a family, Sam.

"I don't deserve to be alive right now, in fact I don't want to be! It hurts! It hurts so much I can't find any relief from it, no matter how much morphine they're putting in me, the pain never gets any better. How's it supposed to? I can't do anything right! I deserve it anyway…it's all I'm good at, it's all I do. I let down the people I love. Maybe that's why Dad never loved me, maybe that's why you wanted to get away so bad.

"I wish I could have stayed in hell. At least I belonged there.

"Now you tell me Sam, what the hell can you possibly stay to fix any of that? You can't even begin to understand it!"

Each of his words slammed into my chest like a knife, white hot and twisting in my gut. It doesn't matter if it's only anger making him say it, it's all things he's been thinking. Things he's never said. Things that have hurt him so badly he can't function. All that was left to him in hell. Hugging himself, he dropped to his knees on the tile and I cringe, that had to have hurt, but nothing flickers in his face. I guess he's already in so much pain he can't notice more.

"Dean…" There are so many things I want to say. Too many things to try and tell him, and really all I can do is hunker down next to him and hold him, and sob. I'm going to yell at him, as soon as I can stop crying and apologizing. Considering he's crying, too. Then again it seems we've both been crying a lot lately. Then again, when was the last time Dean ever actually cried? A tear once or twice a year doesn't count. God this has been building up for years and years, and I never bothered to notice. Mainly because he fought so hard to keep it to himself. And I let him.

"Again?" Bobby asks, coming in, I guess he missed the whole tirade. Just as well, it would have killed him to hear it. "I brought some clothes for Dean," he says, "And some better blankets than these flimsy hospital ones," he mutters, before really looking at us. "You boys okay?"

I shake my head, but I hang onto Dean. He's sobbing so hard he's making me shake, too.

"Well, here's a shirt for him, when you two're done," Bobby must be feeling really awkward, and a smile twitches over my lips despite the tears.

Taking it from Bobby, I set it on the bed, black, Led Zeppelin, of course. Well, it should calm Dean down some. "You get the other stuff, too?" my voice is surprisingly steady, and I'm proud, "C'mon Dean, let's get off the floor, okay?" Reaching under his arms, I haul him up, considering he's not helping me much. "Dean?"

"My legs…" He tries to stand on them, but it doesn't work all that well, fortunately for the both of us, the bed's right behind him, and he can just collapse onto it.

"What about your legs?" He's been smacked into so many things, I really don't think his knees hitting the tile is going to keep him from walking. Then I see the blood.

"Damnit Dean," Bobby mutters, heading out to find a nurse.

"What happened?"

"I think…when you…ane…anem…you don't have enough iron…" he mumbles, wiping at his eyes and sniffing some. Mainly because he's still pretty sick, and he's still really upset. Settling onto the bed, I slip an arm around him and pull him close. He's sick, and he needs to stay warm. And stop bleeding.

"Why don't you get a shirt on, okay? Considering they're probably going to take your pants away."

"They don't like me wearing clothes, do they?" he mumbles into my shoulder. He's completely spent from his outburst, and part of me is grateful. I can feel the tremors running through his body as he calms down and starts to slip into exhaustion.

"I guess not," but it'll be okay. But Dean is having really bad luck with clothing right now. He struggles into his shirt, almost like he doesn't have all the usual motor skills. I help him a little, more because his hands don't quite work, and neither one of us want the shirt to catch on the stitches. Dean is possibly one of the most coordinated people on the face of the earth, and to see him having trouble with something like putting a shirt on makes me a little sick. Looking at his knees, he's not bleeding too badly, so I'm not worried. Slipping my arm back around him to keep him warm, I sigh.

"Dean?"

"Yeah Sammy?"

"I know you gave up a lot for me."

"No, just listen to me okay?" I wait for him to nod. "I never stopped caring about you when I went to Stanford, okay? Yeah, I left, Dean. I had to, okay? I would have just kept getting more and more angry at Dad, and you can't ask me to resent my own father and brother. I left, and you're right, I did abandon you…I'm sorry, Dean, but I had to go, and that's never something I can ever regret. In fact, if Jessica hadn't died, I probably would have stopped hunting, and you'd have never been in this mess in the first place." He starts to protest, and I raise my eyebrow. "But yeah, Dean, I let you die. I'm sorry," I feel the tears well up in my eyes. "But you're wrong! Okay?! You're wrong! I kept looking for a way to free your soul, I kept trying! I couldn't find anything, and I'm sorry!" I'm sorry. "And I'm sorry you never got to have anyone like Jessica…Dean, I'd give anything to make that fantasy world the djinn put you in into a reality. I would! Mom, alive…you with someone, a home, right? And a job. I don't think anyone deserves it as much as you, but…it's not like we can change things…And I'm sorry. I'm sorry you think I don't love you, or care about you the way you do me. But Dean, you're my brother! I'd die for you! Doesn't that mean anything to you?!" I'm not shouting, I'm not shaking him, I'm hugging him. I think we're both shocked, as I yell with frustration into his shoulder, my forehead pressed against the muscle. I'm trembling for once, not Dean. But I'm not trembling with cold, I'm trembling with fear. Fear I'm going to mess this up, and Dean won't understand, and he won't be my brother again. Do I tell him that? Will that make it better?

"I'm sorry I moved on…I didn't move past you Dean, I just kept living! I wasn't going to waste my life when you went to hell to make sure I could keep it…" I couldn't do that. "I couldn't make your stupid sacrifice meaningless, Dean, I couldn't do it! So yeah, I kept hunting, I stayed alive, and I spent every moment not hunting or working on the hunt trying to find a way to free you. And I failed, and I'm so sorry, man, I tried. And I know trying isn't good enough, ask Yoda, right?" That gets a smile from him, I can feel it. "And I know losing Mom didn't hurt any less because you were four, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have ever said that…" he doesn't really react, but I know it's something I said, something I yelled at him when he dragged me from Stanford. I'd always marginalized the pain he was in from losing Mom, because he should have moved on, time heals wounds. It does, not well, not easy, and you scar something ugly, but it heals. But Dean was never just grieving for Mom, he was grieving for all of us. He's seen so many things we don't…that's my brother. He always sees between the lines. It's how he B.S.ed his way through English class. Honors English class, too. He'd just listen to the discussions and come up with whatever he saw that no one else did. He's done that for our family, too. I'm the one who can see the lines, so that Dean has some structure to pull everything from.

"I could hunt without you Dean, I've got my own patterns now, trying to keep myself alive without you around. Hey, I did it, guess you don't need to worry as much, right?" I hug him a little tighter before pulling away, and he lets me. I don't think Dean's really able to handle the contact. It's so foreign for both of us.

"And Dean, Dad did love you. He was just a son of a bitch…" Looking at him, I shrug helplessly. "I didn't stand back and watch you die…I never thought I could imagine you dying. And you're not worthless Dean. Bobby, Ellen'n Jo, too, they love you. You're an ass, but they love you. I love you. Dad loved you, Mom loved you." His eyes glitter with tears, and I don't know if I'm hurting or helping. "Y'know..." I frown a little, "Those things I said, earlier, I didn't mean them…you know that right? I just wanted you angry. Because…I was afraid I'd lost you. And Dean, I'd rather die than lose you again. It doesn't matter what you gave up for me, if I'd really lost you this time, too…" My throat tightens up again, and I'm terrified of something, and I don't know what it is. Dean does that thing where he covers the lower half of his face with his hand and just drags it down where his mouth opens and he tugs at his lower lip. It's such a comforting gesture for me, because he does it all the time. Almost as often as when he smacks himself in the forehead. Usually because of something I've done. Then Bobby and a nurse come back into the room. She's older than the others, probably in her mid-forties. And she looks like she's not going to take any crap from us.

"Yeah, I know," he tells me, before taking a deep breath and switching his attention to the nurse.

--

I glance at the woman, deciding I don't like her. She looks like a bitch. Probably has a couple kids of her own. Funny, how I don't like mothers. Leaning into Sam, I'm too tired to keep myself sitting up. I don't want to lean on him, in fact it's humiliating, but all the same, I can't keep sitting up. And there's nothing else _to_ lean on. She can take my pants off, if she wants, so long as she doesn't expect me to help her any. Fortunately for all of us in the room, she just rolls up the legs, saying something I don't listen to.

"So long as I don't see any other problems, I shouldn't have to remove any clothing," she says. Sam listens, Bobby, too, I'd bet. I'm tired. And cold, I'm still cold. Warmer, though. Warmer from Sam's words. I'm sorry Sammy. He lets me stay huddled up against him. He's like a rock. Like, when it's windy and cold out –two things I hate when I'm hunting, if you get behind a tree, or a cliff face, or whatever, it shelters you. Kinda like Sammy's sheltering me right now.

"Sonuvabitch!" What's she doing to my legs! Sam's holding me to him, so I can't slug the cow. "What're you doing?! What the hell! Sammy, lemme go!"

"Dean, she's just cleaning up the cuts, okay? Calm down!" I don't know why, but he's yelling at me.

"I can hear you just fine…" I mumble, pressing my face into his shirt. I don't care if more people think we're gay, I like the old leather smell of my car, and Sammy smells like it. And his stupid sissy gel and girly deodorant…at least he doesn't use Axe. I hate Axe, in fact almost every single woman I've ever met hates it, too. I like Old Spice. Too bad Sammy doesn't use Old Spice, instead he smells like a granny or something. Powdery smell. Ugh. I wish they had a new-car smell deodorant. That'd be nice. Don't know how girls would feel about it, though. My legs sting. Looking down at them, and the nurse, I'm already bruising. "Sammy? What's that thing…where you bleed all the time? That…the Russian Crown Prince had it, caused all that trouble with Rasputin." I paid attention in history class. When it started out good. Mr. A started a class telling us how Hitler got his ball bit off by a goat. I'm not sure I believe him, but I'd like to. It sounds like the explanation for all those problems.

"Hemophilia?"

"Yeah. My legs look like I have hemophilia."

"No, Dean, you look anemic."

"That the thing vegetarians get because they eat what food eats?" Sam chuckles. I know I sound stupid, but I'm doing it on purpose. It makes Sam laugh, Bobby roll his eyes. The nurse writes me off as a threat, and life goes on. And I can keep leaning on Sammy. Glaring at the radio when it starts blaring The Pretenders, you guessed it, "I'll Stand By You" I kind of want to shoot it. To pieces. Like Agent Booth on _Bones _with the clown. That was great. Everyone wants to shoot the friggin' ice cream trucks. Sammy woulda liked that bit, considering he hates clowns. I feel better. Like I'm not being crushed anymore. I still hurt and ache, and I'm still freezing, but, I feel better.

"It's just low iron, some people are born that way, Dean."

"Like with hemophilia?"  
"Dean, we are not having a repeat of this conversation."

"I guess all those Tuesdays aren't easily forgotten, huh?" I chuckle weakly.

"That's so not funny. I'm gonna kick your ass when you're all better."

"Just try it." The nurse coughs, and I want to kick her, however this isn't like where you're at the dentist and you can 'accidentally' bite their hands.

"You don't need stitches, but you do need some food," she comments, standing up. I resist the impulse to say 'no shit, Sherlock'. Ooh, it's so tempting. And then the moment's passed where it would have been funny. Timing is everything. "I'll have something sent down immediately," she says, before bustling off. I hate 'personnel' of any kind. They're all the same. Little worker drones. Maybe there's a hunt there. I'd like to blow up a lab using their own chemicals. That sounds fun. I don't think Sam'll go for it, though. He's always raining on my parade.

"Sammy?"

"You okay?"

"I'm cold."

"You're always cold."

"Well it was very hot not too long ago," I mutter, deliberately guilt tripping him into handing me a long sleeved shirt. Carefully sliding my arms into the black fabric first, "You realize this would be hotter if it was under my Zeppelin shirt?" I ask, just to make them smile as I tug the shirt over my head. It's an undershirt, because it's really tight. It hurts a little, at first, because it catches on my back on some stitches before Sammy carefully tugs the hem away and down. "I don't need your help dressing!" There's no bite in my voice, though. Too tired. He just laughs. If I had the energy, he'd find his ass down on that tile floor where it belongs. "Bitch."

"Jerk."

I start shivering again, and I can't help it. "Sammy, I can't stay warm…"

"Your temp is normal Dean, I can't really do anything to fix it," and then he takes a breath. "I'll see what I can do, okay?" He gets up and talks with Bobby a few minutes, and this time Bobby settles next to me on the bed, Sam leaving. "I'll be right back, okay Dean?"

"You'd better be….you promised." I don't lean on Bobby. "You guys bring me some jeans, too?" I shift myself to the pillows, figuring I'll ask for some water later. I'm frickin' dying of thirst. I'm surprised no one noticed the water puddle. Maybe it dried up.

"Dean, we are not busting you out of here. We're already trying to avoid as much attention as possible. Despite your damnfool ass getting us more every time I turn around." I'm not going to apologize for that. I don't need to say it, I just won't look at him. God I'm being childish.

"Sorry Bobby, but it's not like I pass out on purpose!" Oh, and yelling is so much better. Nice Dean. Way to be an ass to the one person who's stuck by you all this time. "Sorry," I mumble.

"It's fine Dean," he rests a hand on my shoulder. He's warm. Why can't I stay warm? Or get warm in the first place? His hand's warmer than my whole body. Those stupid thermometers are wrong! I'm so sick of shivering right now.

Another nurse is coming in with fresh bandages and splints, considering the ones on my hands are covered with blood. And hey, new hospital pants. At least they haven't tried to stick me in one of those gowns, because, it's not happening. I _will_ fight that. Once she's done with my hands, she looks at me funny. Looking at Bobby, he shrugs. Then she leaves.

"They don't talk much, here, do they?"

"Well Dean, if you'd seen yourself when you were brought in, you wouldn't talk to you, either."

"I didn't do it on purpose!"

"I know Dean, that's the scary part!"

"Well, I'm sorry!"

"You don't need to yell, I'm right here," he huffs. I sigh. I keep looking at the door every time someone walks past, hoping it's Sam. He finally comes back with food, and a pile of blankets. I'm more interested in the blankets than the food, pulling one from his hands, the food's in plastic, it'll be fine if it hits the floor, fleece. Tugging it around my shoulders, Bobby swears at me a little, Sam just shrugs and starts setting the blankets down. Handing me something that looks like it might be a burger, I look at him, our hands brush.

"Jesus Dean!"

"What?!"

"Your hands are like ice!" He looks so shocked. I keep saying I'm cold.

"Um, dude?"

"What?"

"I told you, I'm freezing!"

"Well, here," Sam mutters, throwing a few more blankets on top of me, like that does any good. I can only curl one leg up under me to keep my foot warm, the other I have too many stitches in that pull and hurt. That gash in my thigh. Otherwise I'd sit…what, Indian style? Yeah. As it is at least I can keep one leg warm.

"Bobby?"

"Yeah Sam?" He looks distracted, considering he's trying to pile the blankets on me in a way that'll keep me warm. Thanks Bobby.

"You think…"

"Think what Sam? Just spit it out already." Bobby never takes any crap from us. Ever. But he's never mean about it. Sometimes I kind of wish Dad would have just left us with Bobby from the start. Idly picking at the pilled fleece, I'm debating saving the little pills of fuzz and finding whatever Sammy's drinking and dumping them in. Hopefully he'd think it was spider. That'd be great. I'm so tired.

"You think the reason Dean's so cold is because he's bleeding internally?" Excuse me? "I mean, his body…like, his extremities aren't getting enough blood? Because well, it's being diverted, it would explain why his hands are so cold. And why he's shivering all the time with a normal temperature. Logically, if not medically." Bobby breathes deeply, letting the air out slowly before rubbing at his beard.

"I hope not," was all he said. Then, "Better go ask a nurse." I'm just sitting there, stunned. Oh, it is a burger. It was just the wrapping over it. It smells good, and it's still warm. Can't be hospital food. Taking a smaller bite than usual, because I don't feel like choking, and my throat aches, I chew, the taste…I mean, it's just a burger. But I feel like it's the first time I've tasted anything! Well, beyond blood, vomit, and dirt. And those just don't count. But, I'm so aware of all the tastes and flavors in the burger. Even the tomatoes are good, and I usually pick those out. They always taste funny. Wolfing down the burger, I hope I can keep it down, considering I was throwing up not too long ago. But this feels fine. I feel fine. Sadly, Sammy didn't bring me anything else. Then again wasn't some nurse going to bring hospital food? Sam comes back with several nurses tailing them, but not one of them is my 'favorite'.

"Dean?"

"Lemme guess, your theory just might be right?" I ask in my best sports announcer voice, which makes the nurses all smile a little. Not one of them is my type. Or my age. Not cool. "Can I have some water?" I ask at my most pitiful. Sam just rolls his eyes, and goes to the sink to fill up the cup, carefully handing it to me and making sure I can hold onto it. Remembering the night before, I take my time. The nurses can wait a few minutes. Once I get the cup to my lips, it's fairly easy to drain it.

--

When they take Dean out for testing, I'm not sure how I feel. Part of me hopes Sam is right, so they can fix whatever's wrong with Dean. The other part of me hates this whole damn situation. "Sam? You know how long it's going to take?"

"For all we know they'll have to rush him into surgery as soon as they're done with the tests," Sam sounds so sick.

"Well at least he ate the food you brought him."

"He did? Good. Means he's eaten something in the past couple days." It's been two? It doesn't feel that long. A few hours, maybe. "Well, we'll be here, no matter what." Sam nods, and I find myself pacing the length of the room, back and forth, back and forth. Taking off my hat, I rub at my scalp some, wishing that they would bring back Dean a little sooner. This stress is killing me. Finally they send a doctor in. About damn time, too.

"Yes?" I snap, impatient. It's been over an hour. I stopped keeping track at that point, figuring they'd taken him in for surgery.

"Some of the pressure underneath the deep gashes in his abdomen had caused internal damage," She starts to explain, before I cut her off.

"And?" I don't need some sissy trailing story. Is he okay or isn't he? Sam gives me a warning look before I give him a glare. He realizes exactly who he's looking at and turns his attention back to the nurse.

"He's fine, and recovering. He's going to need a transfusion," Sam sticks his arm out, and the woman looks bewildered, before Sam flushes and begins to explain.

"I'm his blood type. You won't have to look for a donor or anything, I've given to him before, it'll be fine. And no, I haven't left the U.S. recently, I've never had sex with a man, in fact I wasn't born back when half the questions are relevant, and no, I don't have a sexually transmitted disease," Sam says, rolling his eyes. Typical questions they ask on a blood donor fill out sheet. "Oh, I weigh more than 110lbs and I'm in good health today, other than my brother doesn't seem to be getting any better, which is bothering me a little." The nurse just gapes at him. "Did I forget something? I've never been to Africa, I don't have a rare blood type because I'm Caucasian, and…that's it."

_(that's all for now folks. reviews? and what do you guys think of an update every Weds? Except next week. Serious exams coming up. haaaaate) _


	10. Chapter 9: Nothing Else Matters

_(Um. kay, testing...went well so thanks all of you who wished me luck I love you guys. Funny note, I got more reviews wishing me luck than commenting on the story. lol. Let's hope it goes well next week, in the unending cycle of doom. Spanish testing is next week, and let us all know I can't remember the preterite conjugations to save my soul, forget subjunctive. :) Um...this chapter? So, this one is going to be a lot more light hearted than the others. Oh, and 100 bonus points to anyone who can find the MacBeth reference. It's fairly blatant. Happy Thursday. It's a present for all of you._

_thanks to Merisha, she's a great beta, go check her stuff out!) _

**Chapter 9: Nothing Else Matters**

When they finally wheel Dean back into the room, he looks four times paler than I'm used to seeing him. Even with his skin near transparent when we first found him. He's out from the drugs they used to put him under, and I look at him.

"What was wrong?"

"No organs were in danger, but the bleeding has been stopped, and he should be able to stay warm now." She almost seems to smile when she says it, and I want to punch her. They'd already taken my blood, and I could see it up by the IV draining into him. Maybe he'll have some more color to him, just maybe. Holding his hand gently in mine, I'm so worried about him. But it's true, he is warmer. All the same, I pick up some of the extra blankets I'd gotten earlier and start tucking them up around him. It won't kill him to keep a little extra warm, help prevent an infection from the surgery and other things. His body is just so weak. When Dean starts to wake up, I look at the nurse, hovering. The doctor already left. "Could you please give us a minute?" I ask, trying to keep my annoyance out of my voice. Go away. I want him to wake up, and be annoyed with me. Annoyed that I'm acting weak and trying to hover over him, have him make fun of me for acting like a mother hen, anything. But, I know it won't be like that. That would mean things were back to normal, and that's not going to happen.

Dean's eyes open to just slits, his eyelashes are thick and dark, and I almost can't see his eyes at all. Barely see the brilliant green I'm so used to. "Hey," I say softly, lightly touching his shoulder.

"Heeeyyyyy," he slurs, grinning a little at me. "you shoo try somma this," he tells me, vague and loopy as hell. Lightly smoothing his hair, I smile back. The more he wakes up the easier he'll be able to talk and do other things. I tuck a blanket around his legs, considering the less his body has to do to keep him warm and alive, the quicker he'll recover in general. I hope.

Sadly, he adjusts quickly to the drugs. But hopefully it'll take him a little while longer, but probably not. At least he manages to compensate for them and talk normally. Even if he doesn't quite make sense, sometimes, or he's being irrational. Come to think of it, he's not that different off the drugs.

"Yeah, okay. I'll try some." Smiling at Bobby, at least Dean's in a good mood.

"They cut holes in me," he says, coming down from the high a little. Then again once he adapts to the drugs in his system, no one'd never know he wasn't functioning at one-hundred percent. Really. Well, I guess you could tell, if he opens his mouth. He's still slurring his words, but not as bad. And he sounds so scared and childish.

"Dean, it's okay. They had to, to fix the holes on your insides, you'd gotten hurt, okay?" He nods, trusting me so completely it hurts. I can't break that, and I'm so scared I'm going to. "So, they made you better, and gave you some drugs, and we know how that always turns out," I tell him, lightly smoothing his hair again. "You warm enough?"

"I'm warm…" he mumbles. "Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"When you leave, they're gonna lock me in here again. Trap me like an animal. You said you wouldn't leave, but you're gonna leave me again…" His fingers weakly grasp at my shirt, as he starts to panic despite the drugs, "I'm not an animal, Sammy, I don't _want_ to be locked up…"

Helping him to sit up, I hold him up against me, supporting him with my body. I'm here, Dean, and I know that words can't say enough. There aren't words for how much he needs me, or how much I need him to be okay. "No, Dean. I'm here, and I've got you, okay?" I swallow hard. "Nothing else matters."

He nods into my shirt, shuddering once as tremors rip through him, before he calms down. Dean's never liked not being in full control. He hates restraints, and he hates drugs. He hates when I drive. Well, that might not just be a control issue.

I think once we both got really high, though. I don't remember much about it, but I know it was on a hunt. What I remember is this old stoner who really was being haunted. By a cop who tried to bust him, but crashed and died or something. The details are hazy at best. But Dad accidentally set the place on fire. It was a weed farm, with at least fifty pounds of the stuff dried and ready for sale. And that's all I really remember, other than being really relaxed and calm, and feeling kind of hungry and sick in alternate waves. Dean might remember more, but I doubt it. He was closer to the fire. In fact, I think he's the one who realized something was wrong with the fire. Before he started to laugh like crazy. And that's about it. I don't know if we drove away, or stayed, or what. I don't remember anything from that night, or for the next couple. Other than Dad was really nice for a while. We went and did something like a normal family, I think. Maybe he just actually cooked us something not from a can. I don't know.

Turning back to my brother, he's babbling into my shirt, about what I can't understand him. It's just the drugs, because Dean's not like this. I don't care what hell did to him, he wouldn't babble or be this clingy. Even without the drugs, he was quiet. Calmer somehow. It was just different. I can't wait until it's out of his system. It scares me when he doesn't have any control over himself. It scares me when I think I might not get my brother back. "Shh, Dean, just get some rest, okay?" He nods, and I can feel it more than see it. "I'm gonna help you to lie down, okay dude?" another nod. There's no point in letting him tear any stitches. Helping him settle back onto the bed, "I'm gonna see what I can do to get you out of here, I promise. So just, calm down. Just rest, you're fallin' apart," I grin a little, he's already out. Pulling a blanket up to his shoulder, I don't tuck it around him. He'll just end up kicking it off. He's like the Rasputin Disney character, completely falling apart. Does that make me the little white bat with the annoying voice? Well, Dean's not evil, and I'm not albino, so I think we're safe. Settling him, I pull the covers up over his shoulder, careful to add an extra blanket or two, because he gets cold all the time anyway.

There was a bad hunt once, we got trapped in a cave, all three of us. Our stuff in the car, not even ten yards away, but, that's our luck. There was a fairly bad cave in, I don't think we got hurt from it, but Dean had fallen through some ice into water. Not too deep, I think it was just a ditch or something, but we'd dragged him into the cave to start a fire and then something set off an avalanche, or a cave in….something. I don't remember. But Dean almost died. As if he hasn't almost died a hundred other times. I remember how white he was, and blue around the lips. I was 'old enough' to hunt, so I was probably fifteen or so, making Dean about nineteen. We had to get him out of his wet clothes, but the cave was freezing, and we couldn't make a fire. Nothing to burn. And a lighter wasn't going to heat him up. I think we settled on lighting the dry parts of his clothes on fire. Seriously, because it pulled the water out of the rest and the rest burned. I remember how Dad and I huddled against him trying to keep him warm, the way his shuddering breathing sounded like sobs. How icy his flesh was against mine, what little of my skin poked through my clothing. Dad's promises to get us all out of there okay, once Dean was a little warmer, giving Dean his coat. Giving Dean my hat, pulling it over his head because he was shaking too hard to do it himself. Being told to stay with Dean and keep him warm, rubbing constantly at his hands and arms, trying so hard to make sure that nothing got frostbite. Knowing when the shivers started slowing and stopping that he was in trouble. Making him get up and move, despite his protests. How all he wanted was to sleep and that he was cold. We had to get him to a hospital, but he had to help dig us out of the snow, and Dad was so scared Dean was going to get frostbite. But we got out okay. Dean was alive and shivering hard again, which was comforting, but so wrong. It shouldn't be good that he was shaking so hard we thought he was going to hurt himself. Bundled into the car, making Dean wear as many layers as we could get on him and turning up the heater all the way. We had to get him warm. Warm enough to make it to the hospital where they could really heat him up and save him. Dad and I were sweltering the entire time, having used a lot of energy to dig us out. But we got him to a hospital. Hypothermia. Possibly my least favorite word in the world, I think. He was so sick. I remember how scared we were, and how bad Dean seemed. But he was okay. He's okay. He got better. He can do it again. But he's never liked the cold, and always bitches incessantly about it whenever we're on a hunt in the cold, or waiting for a hunt in a cold area.

"Bobby? I'm gonna go find how we check him out of here."

"Sam, he just had surgery, and a transfusion, are you sure that's a good idea?" Bobby sounds incredulous, and somehow almost annoyed.

"He can't spend the night here. Maybe we can move him into a different part of the hospital, where I can stay with him. Or he's not locked in. Sometimes he needs to know he can leave if he really wants." Looking at Bobby, I sigh. "He's less likely to try and escape, if he doesn't feel like he has to in the first place." Bobby shrugs and sighs a little, figuring it's fine. Besides, he knows I'm going to do whatever I want, anyway. I always do.

When Sam comes storming back into the room, I'm awake again. I don't remember anything too well, other than Sam promising to be there, again. We're a family, and nothing else matters. I remember that with clarity.

"Sammy?"

"Yeah?" he's instantly at my side, worrying over me. Closing my eyes in irritation, I don't open them to talk to him.

"I'm okay, you just…you seem…off," I finish lamely. 'Off'. Nice Dean. You sound okay, plenty intelligent. "I'm ready to leave, I feel better," I add, trying not to sound as pathetic as I know I do. Sitting up on my own, it's still harder than it should be. I feel like I'm having to re-learn how to make my body work. Slipping my legs over the side of the bed, he just keeps watching me, waiting to catch me if I fall. I'm not going to fall. Correction, I have no intention of falling, but there's a slight possibility I will. Carefully shifting my weight to my feet, I slip off the bed and stand up. One hand on the wall in case I can't balance, I grin at him. "I'm good. See?" Taking a few awkward steps, each one sends knives of pain racing up my legs and I can feel the muscles spasm even while I'm trying to walk. I reach one of the two chairs positioned by the door, and settle into it, grateful it wasn't another step further, because I wouldn't have made it. I'm dizzy and nauseous now, but I'm okay. I can do this. We can go, and I can take care of myself. Bobby sits down in the chair next to me, checking my forehead. I want to jerk my head away, but I'm afraid I'll crack it into the wall behind me. So I put up with it, shutting my eyes and shutting them out. It's the easiest way to cope I've found. To just shut it out for a bit. The colors are too bright, everything's too sharp. I wonder if I'm different, or everything around me is…or not having full sight in one eye really did this much damage to my vision in general.

"Dean?" From Bobby's tone I can tell it's the third or fourth time he's said my name.

"Yeah, sorry, I was just spacing out," I let my eyes open to slits before closing them again. "The light sometimes makes my head hurt a little," I force a slight grin and an innocent shrug. "I'll try not to blank out on you guys," letting my voice stay low, because then I can keep it sounding more normal. Stronger. Someone turns out the lights, at least most of them. Probably Sam. I can hear movements, and I then there's a blanket over my lap, and I let my eyes open again, but this time they're too heavy to keep open. I'm so tired. Just walking to the chair burned all my reserves.

"If you're sure."

"Me? I'm always sure!" He pats my shoulder before standing up and moving off. Eyes snapping open, I'm almost up on my feet, thinking that they're leaving me, before I notice neither one's going very far. Just to settle on the bed and in another chair. Giving me space. Relaxing back into the chair, I hope they didn't notice. But they're hunters. Of course they did. "So, Sam, what was this about leaving?"

"I'll be right back, okay?"  
"Don't make me come after you," I warn. Rolling his eyes he stands up and glares at me from the doorway, before shaking his head and leaving the room. Feeling a pressure building up in my chest, I can't relax or let my guard down in case Bobby notices that I'm not doing as well as I'm acting. This hospital, I just want out. I almost died, I was dying, and the last time I've been in one, Dad died. I just want out. The pressure on my chest, it takes me a while, but I realize it's fear. _Don't be scared, Dean._ "Bobby?"

"What now?" But is tone is more joking than annoyed.

"You got any gum?"

"Don't think so. I'll call Sam and tell him you want some. You do want some to _chew_ right?" Last time I asked Bobby for gum, I was maybe eight, and Sam'd smashed something of mine, I don't know what, but I remember putting gum in his hair. Well, more flicking it at him, not really expecting the results. I got in so much trouble for that. Sam also got a hair cut that Dad really liked out of the mess. Which is actually really funny to me, still, for some reason. I still can't believe Bobby would ask me that. It's been a long time.

"Yes, I want it to chew," I mutter. My mouth feels all dried out and I can't get the taste of blood and dirt out of it. Even with food, and constant water. I have as much water as I could ever want. It's just not helping. Bobby flicks out his cell and calls Sam, telling him to find gum. I can almost hear Sam's 'gum?!' on the phone, in his 'what, why are you wasting my time, blah blah blaahh!' I'm so glad it's Bobby on the phone, not me. I don't have the patience or the energy. Tells Sam he wants it for me, which then signals the end of the call. When Sam comes back in, he smiles.

"Catch!" I hold out both hands, I've always been more coordinated than Sasquatch. Unfortunately, for some reason, my reflexes, nothing moves like I want it to and the package of gum drops onto my lap. No harm done, I'm just way too slow. I saw it, and I told my body to respond, it just didn't. Not until it was too late. I don't understand. I'm a hunter, I'm a soldier, I trained, and I made this body a weapon. A machine and for some reason it's not working. Finely tuned reflexes, hours spent drilling, Dad yelling at me because it wasn't good enough, and finally he stopped yelling. He was never proud, but I was decent. I wasn't worth paying attention to anymore. So I kept working at it, trying harder and harder, I just wanted to please him. And now, now I'm too slow to catch a package of gum. Frowning at Sam, I sigh.

"We're going to have to work on that," I comment, blinking at the gum.

"It's the only flavor they had," he says defensively. Strawberry with lime? Popping one of the little white squares into my palm, I stare at it dubiously. I was hoping for mint. Bottoms up. Putting it in my mouth, and biting down is a slight shock. Because there's some sort of goo inside, which, reading the little package, is supposed to be there.

"Dude, you gotta try these," I tell him, not sure I can throw it back. If I couldn't catch…and I was good at baseball when we were little.

"Why?" His voice is cautious. It's gum! What'm I gonna do to hurt him with _gum_!? Picking it up, I finger it, and toss it to him, pleased that while it arcs in the air like a lollipop throw, it still goes to him, and he catches it. Sam cautiously bites into one of the little white squares, dividing it neatly in half "It's green!"

"Yes Sam, it's green." Rolling my eyes, I shrug at Bobby, who's chuckling helplessly. "Can we go now?"

"Not yet."

"I thought you left to-"

"Dean, you have to be checked over." It's his overly patient-you're a moron voice. I hate that tone. I'm going to beat it out of him one of these times. Along with the buzzkill. "You just had surgery, remember? You were in hell? You scrubbed all your skin off? Any of these things ringing a bell?" I cringe.

"Yeah." Okay, so fine, I'm not 'okay' and I can't leave yet. I feel better than I have for a while. Not really, but, I mean. I don't know. I don't know anything anymore. Eventually a nurse comes in. I think it's 'my' nurse, the one I like. She flirts with me some, but I don't have to flirt back. She's young, as in probably a few years younger than me, more Sam's age.

"Hey Dean," she says with a big smile.

"I'm not crazy, and I'm not stupid," I tell her, frowning slightly, considering she's acting a little like some kid's show host. And the mask drops, and she brushes at her hair, pulling wisps behind her ears. I see Sam checking her out, and I glare at him. _My_ hot nurse. Get your own.

"I know," she says patiently, checking me over. After a few minutes of just routine stuff, she looks at Bobby and Sam. I don't understand the look, but they evidently do.  
"Dean? We'll be right outside, okay?"

"What? Okay." I have no clue what's going on.

By the time Sammy and Bobby are allowed back in, it wasn't anything unpleasant, at least I didn't mind. Just making sure all my skin was healing right. I guess it's 'cause she made me take my pants off. Okay. I was kinda worried for a little bit there. But, she didn't have any rubber gloves, so I figured I was gonna be okay. Although I hate when they make you lie down and they tap on your stomach, that drives me insane. It's that hollow feeling you get when some asshole on the road has his bass jacked up higher than it needs to be and his whole friggin' car bounces with it, and y'get nauseous and it thunders through your stomach burning through you.

"If I didn't know any better," she says slowly, "I'd say you guys were all in the Mafia," she finishes with a grin. I have no idea what's wrong with her. Realizing we don't understand she smiles a little, then frowns. "Well, it looks like from all his injuries that he was buried alive, right? Not quite sleeping with the fishes, but hey." She shrugs, "I'll get a doctor in here for the mental evaluation and then assuming you pass that, too, you can go." Well at least I get to leave. And at least she managed to check my heart before saying something like that, because I think my heart rate just tripled.

"Why do they always have to be pretty and smart?" I ask, leaning back on the bed. Curling into a ball on the bed, I don't want to put up with a mental evaluation. I just want to leave how about that? I'd be fine if I could go home. But, since I don't even have a home to go to, there's no real chance of that, is there? I'll settle for Bobby's place. Picking up my water cup, I stare at it mournfully, wishing it was full of beer, or possibly some strong whiskey. Sam, misinterpreting my look, as always, gets me more water. Drinking it just so he doesn't worry about me, or think I'm being fickle, fickle? Well, whatever.

Sam looks up when a woman enters the room, sensing and hearing her long before me. What's wrong with me? Every single sound that I hear is magnified and sharpened times a hundred, just like my vision feels…I feel like Superman. If Superman had absolutely no coordination. And considering he was never all that coordinated to start with, that's saying something. Spider-Man's the coordinated one, even Batman, but Superman's the one who doesn't have to bother with coordination. I always liked to think that I was kind of like Batman, big family tragedy, so we train and we improve. And we take on the night, make things better. Only huge lack of a mansion and all that. Kinda more like Spider-Man, I guess. Either way, my Spidey-senses aren't working anymore. There's too much, I'm surrounded by too much noise, and it's all hurting my ears making my head ache. Each pulsating beep of the monitor checking my heart sends spikes of agony through my head, coupled with the woman's heels on the tile, Sam's hoarse breathing, Bobby's gentler breathy sighs. The noises outside the room, down the hallway. The woman typing at her desk in the lobby, I can hear it all, feel it all running through me, and it hurts. Because none of it makes sense, and I can't focus long enough to understand any of it. The sharp rings of a telephone…the gum helps, it gives me something else to focus on, the sound of my jaw working, it just helps block everything else off.

I remember my cover. "Hello, Ma'am," I say, letting a soft drawl escape my lips, considering we did grow up in the South. Well, I did. Sort of. "I'd stand up, but I'm feeling a little under the weather, and I'm told that I should be mindful of my stitches." I let a slow smile spread across my face. The 'trust me' smile. Pulling myself up into a sitting position, I stiffen my back, like a soldier. I wince slightly at the stitches pulling the cut that starts at my shoulder and runs to my opposite hip. I let the pain show on my face before I mask it like a soldier.

"At ease, man," the woman chuckles slightly, pulling up the chair and staring at first Bobby, then Sam. Both men meet eyes and they leave me.

I can't stop the panicked "Sammy!" that bursts from my lips when I see him leaving. I see the pain in his face, and I cringe. I've already blown it. "You…" I grin, Dean you can do this. Don't let your family down again. "You've got my cell," I shrug a little helplessly. I can take that. Then I can always get a-hold of Bobby. If nothing else. Sam smiles weakly at me, before tugging his cell out of his pocket. Handing it over to me, he sighs.

"You can barely work your cell," he says, rolling his eyes at me. I grin helplessly at the shrink, as if saying 'you see what I have to live with?' Please let that be a decent cover up. I can't keep letting them down. She smiles back at me, it's warm. Genuine, I think. I can't tell. What did Dad tell us about people who lie? They blink more. They stare right at your eyes in a disconcerting way, or they can't quite face you at all. When they smile but they don't show their teeth, or they show too much tooth. What else? I can't remember. My palms are starting to sweat as I start to panic.

"So, Dean? May I call you that?"

"Yes Ma'am," Ma'am, always go with that. Always be polite. Rule number one, dad told us about his time in the military, you're a soldier, and you fight for the American people, and you damn well respect them, too. "Ma'am, you can call me whatever you want," I tell her, doing my best to feign surprise. Why would she even have to ask? I can't slip into my rhythm, my 'liar's place'. I scrabble inwardly, trying to find that state of calm, where all that's there is the character I'm playing. I can't find it, all the same I shore up my walls with this 'Colonel Dean Singer' who was busy elsewhere while his buds went and got blown up. I think the story is that I was off relieving myself or something, and I still got hit with the shrapnel. Great story, that'll make the ladies love you. Thanks Bobby.

"Well, Dean, I was wondering if you would mind talking about your experiences over seas?"

"Yes Ma'am, I mind quite a lot, actually." I let my face flush with 'shame' at disappointing her, instead of the fear that I'm going to make a mistake.

"Would you mind telling me why?"

"I don't…" I smile at her, "Ma'am, you train with your friends, and they become your brothers, the only family you have. It's the only way you survive, you have them. Government says you'll get to come home in six months, see your family. Your time comes, and they tell you it's another six months. All you want to do is die, but your brothers, they get you through it, and you get them through it. You know more about these guys then you do yourself. They're part of you," I smile weakly, dropping my eyes to stare at my hands, where I fidget slightly with the splints on my fingers, careful not to dislodge or mess with them, just enough to show I'm distressed talking about my brothers-in-arms. "There was Jim, he was the religious one, always praying and telling us God would keep us safe," I smile. "Caleb, the hard-ass, determined to get through it all. There was this girl, I thought she was a real bitch," I look up and flush again, "Pardon my language, Ma'am," she nods a little. "Her name was Meg, turns out there was just some stuff wrong inside, but she was a real sweet girl once we realized what was wrong. Was a lot of help to us, in the end there," I swallow hard, hoping she thinks that it's from talking about them, not about how scared I am I'm going to mess up. Dad always said the more truth you used to lie, the more people believe.

I think Hitler wrote something in _Mein Kampf_ like that, I remember Mr. A telling us about it said something like 'the more absurd and giant the lie, the more likely people are to believe it, because they can't fathom it would be made up –it's too ridiculous to not be true.' I don't really even know what _Mein Kampf _is…but, I remember that. I remember how it chilled me to the bone. Made my heart go cold in my chest, because…we lie so much, as hunters. And I remember being terrified that we were like Hitler, just lying to people. But we were saving them. From real monsters, not from people we portrayed as monsters. Wendigos…Wendigo's are monsters. It's not the same. She nods, making a few notations on her pad, I think she's just doodling. Am I boring her? Look lady…

"You go through basic, and one of you messes up, you're all punished," I smile some. "One of us got caught sneaking a call home to a girl, and the rest of us were so mad. Not that we got punished, that we got caught!" I grin a little, forcing a light chuckle. She nods a little.

"Dean, would you do me a favor?"

"Yes, Ma'am." I try to keep some of the confusion from my face, and I know I can keep the annoyance off.

"I'm not just in psychiatrics, and I was wondering, I know the stitches bother you, but can you walk across the room unaided?"

"I thought the nurse said I was fit," then I belatedly add "Ma'am."

"She said your vitals were strong, and it wouldn't hurt you any to leave, assuming you could care for yourself. Or at least you wouldn't require too much more attention than your family can give." There's something she's not saying. Nodding my head, I stand up, almost saluting, but stopping myself, before giving her a sheepish grin. A little longer. God, I'm shaking so bad. Starting to walk the length of the room, she says abruptly, "Please turn back to face me and walk." I'm concentrating too hard on walking to respond, and it takes a few seconds before I can physically respond to her request as my body takes a few more shaky steps forward before I pivot with a ghost of the grace I once had, and begin moving towards her. It hurts to walk, each step jars my body, the cold of the floor seeping into my flesh. Returning to the bed, I'm sweating and shaking like a leaf. I don't sit.

"Permission to sit, Ma'am?" I ask; my body 'at attention' as I keep my back stiff. I'm going to ache later. I might just break one of my main principles, and sink into a hot bath at Bobby's. My muscles ache. That doesn't turn me into a chick, does it? Maybe I'll just pass out under several layers of blankets.

"Of course, you don't need to ask." I smile gratefully, settling myself stiff backed onto the bed, lightly tugging a blanket over my legs with another apologetic smile. I'm just trying to hide the muscle spasms from overexertion. I need Sam. I can't do this anymore.

"So, let me ask, how are you feeling about the people around you?" The question is innocent enough.

"Grateful, I suppose," I say, frowning a little, running a hand through my hair as I pause to think. "I mean, they saved me. I was a bit of a wreck, discharged from the military because of my injuries," I flush again. I'm starting to overheat. Let her think I'm ashamed. Rubbing at my hair again, I feel my own forehead. My fingers are too clumsy to work Sam's phone from my pocket, and I can't openly call Bobby for help. "They're my blood family, and they're all I've got left…" I nod, and smile a little. Eager to please, but in control of myself. "Ma'am, I just want to go home. I know I didn't do so well the first time, Ma'am, but I'm better now, I'd like to think. I've had some time to think," I nod at the bible Sam must have picked up, because it's on the small table next to me. "I think, I think I've found a place where…" oh, this'll work, "Where I can pick up some of the pieces of my life. My life before the war, before basic. I worked with my uncle a lot at his junk shop, repairing cars. That was my specialty in the military, Ma'am, and I think I can do that again. I like fixing cars." The more truth, the better the lie. "I rebuilt my father's Impala," I grin, for real this time. "She's a black '67, looks like perfect, after he went and wrecked it," I grin a little. "He never liked it that much." Chuckling some, I tell her "So he passed it on to me when I needed a car." She smiles warming up to my story. It's true, after all.

"Well Dean, how're your motor skills?"

"Ma'am, I was a crack shot," I tell her, letting pride fill my voice, I can hear it, and it makes me sick. I'm not proud of myself. I'm lying to someone who wants to help me. "I was fastest at the gun drills, too, putting it together and taking it apart," I smile. "I hated when we learned to insert IV's into each other, poking holes in my brother, missing the vein until I got it right. Not that he didn't miss just as often," Dad taught us how. I remember he made me practice on him. How scared I was, how badly my hands shook at the very idea of why I would ever need this skill. _Don't be scared Dean. I'm not scared, Dad. I'm not scared when you're with me. _

I want to fall on my knees and sob, tell this woman all I've been through, every single time my father has hurt me, and knew, and didn't care. Every time my brother hurt me, to ask her to take away the pain of his abandonment, when he went to Stanford. How much it hurt when Pastor Jim died, and another man I loved like a father was cut out of my life. Another person who loved me gone, one less refuge in this god awful world. Caleb's screams as he died, how they broke my heart, as I heard a man I loved and respected broken by some stupid bitch who didn't care…didn't care that I loved Caleb, or that Dad or Sammy did. Didn't care this man was one of the few friends we had, and that she was killing him. And that he was happy to die for us, to protect us. Because he loved us, and we loved him.

How do you tell someone that? How do you explain that to someone who's not a hunter? Someone who hasn't served in the core, someone who doesn't begin to understand what it's like to watch every single person you love die. To know that you have failed everyone that matters to you. And that there's nothing that can fix that. You can't do a single thing to go back and fix it, and no matter how often you obey or do your best, it's still not good enough, because it doesn't change anything.

No matter how many demons you kill, no matter how many people you save, you can't bring them back. You can't honor their deaths like they deserve, because no one will ever know how much they mattered to you, or how many people they saved.

Because we're hunters.

We don't fit in with the rest of society, we manipulate it, in order to save it. Running card scams, hustling pool. We do things that make us sick and violate the moral principles we want to uphold, violate the things we stand for, so that someone else can stay alive to stand for them. Because if we don't, no one else is going to, and humanity's going to become lost in the dark. The night will take over and swallow us all.

How do you explain that to someone?

How could they ever _possibly_ understand that?

You can't.

To them, it's just words.

It's some tale, told by a madman, full of sound and fury.

And none of it means anything.

_(thanks for reading. And thanks to everyone who alerts, favourites, reviews, etc I love you all. Maybe. reviews to continue?) _


	11. Chapter 10: Road I'm On

_(Thanks to my beta Merisha. Shameless shout out to PA Davis' new fic -in honour of Merisha being obsessed with it. It's scary. -her obsession, not the fic so far- um...testing is over. Now the video project for English -I am the only girl in a group of four boys. None of them know the song "Freebird" -I made a reference about it tying to graduation- or classic rock. I died a little inside, seriously. But I get to put one of them in drag, so I'm excited. Thanks to everyone who has favourited, alerted, and reviewed. Especially my constant reviewers. I love you guys and look forward to your comments at every chapter. :) You rock my world. Also, notice almost every single chapter is a song title! HAH because I can! 'kay, I'm done.) _

**Chapter 10: Road I'm On**

I carried Dean out of the hospital. He'd fallen asleep some time before the doctor gave us her evaluation. She said she didn't think he would try to hurt himself again, and that it was fine. We just needed to keep pumping fluids into his body, and stop him from over-exerting himself. One of those things would be easy, the other was going to be a fight. But at least he slept through me carrying him and settling him in the Impala. Carrying him out, I remember thinking that I never would have believed "Country Roads" could have an ominous sound. I mean, it's _John Denver_ for chrissakes_. "Country roads, take me home, to the place, I belong."_ But maybe it only bothers me because Dean said he belonged in hell when he finished yelling at me. Or maybe because we don't have a home, and whenever a character in literature 'goes home where they belong' it's usually them dying and going to heaven. Well, heaven's better than hell, I guess.

Please don't leave me again.

Glancing over at him, he's still asleep, blanket still tucked around him. It was really awkward for me, trying to get it around him without waking him up, and making sure it wasn't going anywhere if he moved around. He gets cold so easy now. His head's up against the window, entire body weight on the door…it's gonna be a bitch trying to get him out without waking him up or dropping him. Which I guess would wake him up. Nice Sam. Rubbing at my eyes, I'm just following Bobby's tail lights. We managed to leave some time around five or so? I mean he was awake at lunch, they rushed him into surgery…I have a bag of pill bottles full of pills I'm supposed to cram down his throat every couple hours. I don't know what in hell gave them the idea Dean would willingly take any of those, but I guess I can try. I think most of them are for pain and are just broad spectrum antibiotics, and then vitamins. And if we can just get him to eat right, he won't need the vitamins. I think one is an anti-depressant or something. I hope not.

Every time Dean stirs I have a heart attack, waiting for him to wake up and freak out. But we arrive at a motel okay. It's too far to Bobby's, and we don't want to deal with that yet. So tomorrow we'll head back the rest of the way, but we're exhausted. All of us. As the light fades Dean stirs more and more often, starting to mumble things in his sleep again. Reaching out I grab his shoulder for a few minutes, while I'm driving, before I need both hands to make a turn. I sigh in relief as we pull into the motel parking lot alongside Bobby's truck.

"Bobby," he swings himself down out of the truck, "I'm gonna need your help getting Dean out of the car."

"Alright," he says easily.

"I'm gonna crawl in from the driver's seat and hold onto the blankets and try and support his head, if you can get the door open…or maybe we should switch, 'cause I'm the one who can carry him." Bobby nods, and moves around to the other side of the Impala after locking up the car. When Bobby nods to me that he's got Dean, I carefully open the door, before slipping my arm under his knees and my other around his shoulder, making sure that his head's resting against me, so it doesn't flop around before I start lifting him up. It's tricky, because he's still kinda heavy, and I don't want to slam either of us into the car. Or fall. It's gravel, and that would hurt.

Bobby closes up and locks the car, before moving ahead of me to open up the door to the me'n Dean's motel room. Bobby and I don't stay in the same room. It'd just be weird, I guess. Considering Dean and Dad are the only two people I've ever shared a room with. Well, and Jess. When Dean starts to wake up a little at a time I start to panic, and push inside of the room, settling him on the bed quickly. I don't want to get punched in the face again for no good reason.

"Sam?!" he thrashes, calling out for me.

"Dean, I'm here, it's okay!" the lights to the room aren't on yet. Bobby flips them on, and I wince a little at the light. When he sits up, alert, he's looking around, panicked. I don't know what to do to make it better.

--

I don't know where I am. I was in the hospital. And now…? Now I don't know. It's not familiar at all. It's not Bobby's place. My mind won't work. Some part of me knows that it's fine, I'm safe, but another part of me is terrified because I don't know where I am! My throat's so tight I can't seem to choke any words out, and I wordlessly find myself gripping my necklace hard, so hard it digs into my palm, and it hurts.

"Dean?" It's Bobby. And I wish they'd stop saying my name like it's a question. It's me, it's Dean. We all know it, get with the program. Nodding my head, I can't talk. I'm panicking too much, and I know I'm panicking, but I can't calm down.

--

I grip Dean's shoulder tightly, "Dean, it's okay son, we're out of the hospital, like you wanted," his reaction is just bizarre. We knew when he woke up he wasn't going to be doing that great, considering he's always waking up in a tizzy, but I wasn't expecting this. "Dean calm down. Breathe!" I snap the last word at him, hoping to penetrate his thick skull. He finally heaves in a huge breath, "Let it out slow!" He's going to friggin' hyperventilate because he's being a moron. He either wakes up in a fit, or else he wakes up and he's just like how we found him, and we're not sure if we're going to get him back, and every time he comes back to us, it takes longer and longer. I prefer him waking up like this. At least we know he's Dean. When he goes into a coughing fit it's all I can do to stabilize him and smack him on the back until he can breathe again. Probably choked on his own spit, the idjit. He'll be okay, though.

"Dean?" He eyes me wearily. "You with me son?" When he nods, still out of breath, I relax. But I don't let go of his shoulder. "Stay calm, alright? Sam'n I are right here. We're not leaving you, and we left the hospital while you were sleeping. It was just easier, okay?" He gives me another weary glance from the corner of his eye before nodding. "Sam?" I bark, "Go get some water. And some ice." I raise my eyebrows at Sam's hesitation "Well?" Before he goes off doing what I told him. "Dean'll be fine!" I shout at his retreating back. Waiting a few more minutes, "Don't even try to talk until you've had something to drink," I tell him, and he nods gratefully, leaning back on the pillows. His breathing's pretty painful to listen to, because it's so hoarse, but he's surviving, and right now that's all I really worry about. Just keeping him alive. He can be sick, so long as it's not life threatening. Then again with these boys, sometimes just breathing can be life threatening. When Sam hands me the cup full of water, and the bag of ice, I just put the ice down on the bed, I'll need that later, I grab the back of Dean's neck, gentle, but he's still shaking like a leaf, and hold the cup to his lips. "Drink," he doesn't get a choice. He's not strong enough to fight me, and his hands are a mess. "I don't have time to re-set the bones of your fingers every day," I tell him, before he starts sipping at the water. "That's better." You have to stay calm around him, or he gets real riled up for some reason. 'Some reason' god don't be stupid Bobby.

He's not going to be right for a long time. If we ever even get him back all the way. When I let him settle back on the bed, I slide the ice under his neck. When he moans in protest, I ignore him. "You're starting to get a fever, and I'd really hate it if I invested this much time in you and you went and died from a fever while we were sleeping." I pause to give him a smile, make sure he's still following me. "You're eating something tomorrow, understand?" When he nods again, I pat his shoulder and stand up. "He's all yours Sam, but give him some space. Between the two of us we'll smother him." I'd rather not admit it, but it's true. I don't know what we're going to do when we move out tomorrow, if Dean's awake. He can't walk, and he'll want to. Oh sure he can take a couple shaky steps and collapse onto something, but he can't _walk_. He's as weak as a kitten. And Sam's not much better, trying to carry him everywhere. Dean's going to get pissed, and he's going to do something stupid and get himself hurt. We're going to have to be careful. By the time I'm closing the door behind me, I can see Dean's already asleep. Let him alone Sam, he'll be fine.

--

I turn the light on in the bathroom, angling the door so the light'll shine on Dean. He doesn't sleep well when it's dark. Used to be he'd sleep any time any where. Now, it gets dark and he starts to freak out. Wakes up, and sometimes he's empty, like when we found him, and other times he's freaking out. Sometimes he cries. It scares me, but it's worse though, when he's not Dean. It's worse when he stares out blankly, the tears running down his cheeks and he doesn't notice. Doesn't see anything around him, there's nothing of my brother in those eyes. Sometimes he comes right back to me, in a burst of pain and fear, it's always pain and fear that bring him back to me. I wish that something different would bring him back. I don't know what's worse, but it's so much more terrifying when he's not Dean. Because….every time…every time it takes a little longer for him to find his way back to me, and if I do anything, it just takes longer, and he hurts himself. Moves away from me and falls. I can't touch him, I can't help him when he's like that, and what…what if…what if one of these times, what if he doesn't come back to me? I can't lose him again. Reaching out across the gap between our beds, I settle my hand against his arm, I know when I roll over in my sleep it'll move, and he'll never know, or I wouldn't risk it.

--

It hurts. Everything's too hot. I don't, I don't understand. I hurt so bad. I can't, I'm having trouble remembering…there's something, I have…an important purpose. I'm, someone said that. Saw something in my heart. A young man with an important job to do. Something. I can't remember. I don't, there's nothing in my heart. I don't…it hurts. Someone's screaming. I can't help them. Someone's screaming. They're in pain. I hurt too. I hurt so bad. Please, make it stop. Please stop. I'll do whatever you want, just stop hurting me. I can't take it anymore. I'm too weak, please, just stop. I'm burning. Something's burning me from the inside out. Please…it hurts.

--

Dean's screams of agony wake me up in seconds, not to mention his begging.

"Please…please…stop…just stop…I can't…I can't take it, just stop…" his litany of pain terrifies me. And he won't wake up.

"Dean!" I roar, my free hand fumbling with my cell. He's burning up with a fever, I can feel it. Gonna make him hate me, but I've gotta just dump him in a tub of cold water. Saved my life a few times, when I was younger. "C'mon Dean wake up!" I shake him a little, pulling him up when he's done screaming, and was done when I started shaking him. His throat's too raw to scream anyway. I can hear how hoarse his soft begging is, as his voice fades in and out. "Dean, calm down! Wake up!" Bobby doesn't bother to answer the phone, he just comes into our room.

"Sam? What's wrong with him?"

"He's having a nightmare, and he's not waking up….he's burning up Bobby." Bobby's over by my side in an instant, pulling Dean closer to him, keeping my brother sitting.

I want to protest, begging him not to take Dean away from me.

But he's just checking his forehead, trying to wake him up like I did. Thrusting the empty water cup at me, he hauls Dean to his feet.

"Dean, up!" Bobby snaps, doing a fair imitation of our father, but Dean just sags against him. I'm stronger than Bobby, Dean's my brother. I can carry him. Instead I just get the water, and a washcloth, figuring that's what Bobby wants. Instead, he just works Dean over to the tile near the entrance as splashes water in his face. Wakes Dean up with a gasp. He coughs and chokes on the water he managed to inhale, but he's awake.

"Thank god, Bobby, Dean, hey! You okay?" the words die on my lips when I see his eyes. Bottle glass. Chips of empty green bottle glass. Fumbling for the light I flip it on, his face is flushed and he's sweating, hair matted down to his head. "Dean?" I hear my voice crack and I flush, too.

"Look Sam, I'm not gonna bother taking his temperature, he's too hot, we gotta cool him down, and fast. What're you doing?" Then he looks at Dean, and he understands. "It's just the fever Sam. Once we cool him off he'll be fine." I almost believe it. Either way we haul Dean into the bathroom, we undress him down to his undershirt and boxers, because it's really not worth the struggle he puts up when we try to touch him or come close. When he's like this, where his mind isn't there, his body's fine. His reflexes, his strength…but when…when he's my brother…well at least he's not throwing punches. We manage to get the water going and about half fill the tub. Bobby's pretty damn sure that most of that water is going to end up on us. I remember watching someone try to give a cat a bath once. I feel like how I imagine that person did.

"Dean calm down, god you're such a pain in the ass!" I coax him, trying to keep my voice low and calm, but I can't stop myself venting some of my frustration at him, my arms around his middle as he tries to get away from us. He's not making any noise other than his heavy breathing, and he keeps jerking away, and between Bobby'n me, we can barely keep 'hold of him. "Bobby grab his legs!" It takes a few seconds, but we've got him. Dumping him into the tub, he quiets pretty fast. His eyes are dull and fever-bright at the same time. "Dean, hey man. Look, I know this can't feel good, but we need your fever down." It's my most reasonable tone. Not my 'I'm going to kill you when you're better' tone. It's so hard to keep on the line, though, with that. Because I want to punch him. Up until he starts shivering, and then I just feel bad.

"He looks like a kitten in a card board box."

"During a rain storm," Bobby mutters.

"I was thinking hail."

"True." Bobby ruffles Dean's hair, spraying water on me. "Dean, we're sorry. Okay, son, but you gotta cool off." He checks my brother's forehead again, "Damnit cool down…" he sounds worried, and then I get more worried. Dean just watches us, and it hurts to…Bobby pours more water into the tub, and Dean starts to shiver harder. "I'll be right back Sam, don't let him go anywhere," as if I would.

When Bobby finally comes back he has the ice bucket and the plastic bag both full of ice and he dumps them into the tub, and Dean yelps, moving away from them. At least it's a response. Bobby picks up a washcloth, soaking it with the water, probably to wipe Dean down some.

"Cold," he moans, pushing at the ice with his hands.

"Dean?"

"Sam?" I hear his voice break.

"Sam, I'm cold. I don't know where I am…"

--

"Dean, take it easy, you've got a high fever." He lightly presses his fingers to my forehead. "Bobby, his temp's coming down. I think he'll be okay." Thinks I'll be okay? He just _thinks_. You're supposed to be the one with all the answers Sam, so stop friggin' guessing and just know! You always know everything, and you rub my face in it. Why can't you know now? The one time I need you to be sure the most. I'm the one failing you. I can't get better. I should have stayed dead. I belong back in hell, I'm sorry Sammy. Getting one hand on the edge of the tub, I start to push myself up and my foot slides, so I don't go anywhere. I can't get any traction.

"Damnit Dean, stay put!" Bobby comes back with the thermometer, telling me to put it under my tongue. I do, but I'm freezing. I can barely stop my teeth from chattering. "Sam, he's still warm. Warmer than I'd like…" Bobby's watching and waiting for a minute to pass before he takes the thermometer away. "Got him down to 102." Down? Down to 102?!

"Well how hot do you think he was getting?" Sam demands. Bobby just glares at him. I try to stand up again, and get a little higher before crashing back down onto my butt. The water slops up the sides of the tub, and back, moving higher on my body, and I start to shiver harder.

"Sam, he feels cool now, and he's at 102, do you think he was only around 103 when I was worrying about him?" Bobby notices my attempts to lever myself out of the tub, and grips my shoulder, keeping me down.

"Always trying to…" the words die on my lips. It's not worth it. "Bobby, I'm freezing. I'm okay, lemme up." Please, I'm friggin' freezing my ass off here. And I don't have a lot of ass to freeze off. Seriously. "Please Bobby…I'm cold," I let the words trail into a whisper, and I see the pain in Bobby's face and guilt washes over me. Nothing happens and Bobby looks at his watch.

"Just another few minutes Dean." I rub at my eyes carefully, more because they itch than I'm crying again. I'm so done with the whole crying thing for the rest of my life. It's too exhausting. Eventually I feel Sam and Bobby both grip my upper arms, one on each arm, and it hurts. My body's just a bruised mess. Where I'm not numb from the water. At least that's a good thing, I guess. "C'mon Dean, stand up."

"Bobby, Dean's not-"

"Sam, he can stand up. We've only got him for balance. Okay Dean?"

"Yeah…" I hope so. Carefully shifting my legs under myself, Bobby's grip is gentle enough I can move my arm around so I can push myself up. Sam's hurting me a little. "Dude, leave off, I got this," and he relaxes some. "If you bruise me, you die." I know he's not going to let go, but he doesn't have to hurt me. Using both arms, one to grip the clear plastic bar you're supposed to hang a washcloth on, and the other on the lip of the tub before I start forcing my body up. I slip a few times, and Bobby and Sam keep me from falling, but it doesn't stop the curses pouring out of my mouth every time my heel slips out from under me.

By the time I'm up on my feet, I'm panting and sweating, and they're probably going to make me sit back down in the ice water again. Bobby checks my forehead, shifting his grip on my body.

"Alright Dean, you're alright," he says soothingly, and I realize he's been talking to me the whole time, I'd just been to distracted to hear him. Sam, too. Sam's white faced and looks like he wants to either cry or hurl, I'm not sure. Considering they've both gone all fuzzy and the room keeps getting brighter and then dimmer.

"Bobby…"

"Dean you okay? C'mon, let's get you out of there, c'mon Dean, just walk out of the tub, we've got you." I can barely get my leg high enough before I sag against Bobby. He's closer, and Sam's behind me, probably waiting for me to pass out. I'm not going to pass out. I can barely keep my body up, and I feel my muscles spasm.

"Bobby I gotta sit…" it kills me to admit it, and I find myself perched on the toilet lid, towels wrapped around me to get me dry. "No more ice, please…" I'm shivering again. I was warm after the surgery. Sam made sure I had blankets and stuff. I can't stand being cold. Bobby's clothes are soaked, when did that happen? Sam, too. Did I do that? I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm cold.

"Here's some dry clothes," Sam says, handing me a pile of clothing. His sweats, man we gotta do something about that, my boxers and a shirt. Raising my eyebrows, I don't know what they want, because I'm not going to change with them watching me. Although I do settle the pile of clothing on the counter top and automatically rub a towel over my hair. My hands hurt.

"What?" I ask, annoyed.

"You need anything else?"

"No!"

As soon as they're gone I shrug off the wet boxers and t-shirt, drying myself off the rest of the way with trembling hands. It takes a few tries before I can pick up the dry clothes to even tug them on. The shudders that rip through me don't help much, either. But I manage to dress myself without too much trouble. Looking at my shirt I smile a little. Pink Floyd, the one with the prism on it. It slides over my back fine, probably the first time something I've tried to pull over my head hasn't tried to attach itself to the stitches. Heaving myself up using the counter, I stare at myself for a few minutes, and I don't know who I'm seeing. Touching my face, it's like…someone else, staring at me. It's like looking into the eyes of a corpse.

Reaching the doorway, I let my hand rest on the knob, before realizing I can't turn it to open the door. Sinking back onto the toilet lid, I let my arm rest on the counter as I start to chuckle, leaning my head in my hand before I start to really full out laugh, resting my head along my arm as I let it settle flat on the counter. Hurts too much to keep it up. Who'dve thought I could have managed to stand up and get there, only to not have enough working fingers between my two hands to get a friggin' door open?

--

Ignoring Bobby's look, I stand up, hearing something from the bathroom. I could have sworn when the doorknob jiggled that Dean was going to be coming out. But then I hear something else, and figure that Dean might not be okay. When I cautiously turn the knob and look in, I find him crying. It's frustration, I can tell, considering he's knocked almost everything off the counter, probably in a fit of anger. But he's dressed. So that's good.

"Dean…" my voice is as gentle as I can make it. He looks up at me, hiccupping once. Rubbing at his eyes, he completely misses the tears on his cheeks and a few glance off his cheekbones and disappear. Lightly catching his jaw, I grab a tissue and wipe the tears off, I hope I'm gentle enough. Letting go of him, the whole situation brings back memories of when I was playing soccer –without Dad's permission, and I fell and scraped up my knees. I was young, it's a fuzzy memory, at best. But I remember crying because Dad was going to kill me when he found out. I remember Dean catching my chin and wiping tears off my face, telling me it was going to be fine. Cleaning up my legs and bandaging me up, and making sure Dad didn't find out.

"Y'know what's funny?" he chuckles weakly. Shaking my head mutely, he continues to explain, "I could get up fine, too numb to not be able to, but…" holding up his hands to me, like I'm going to understand he shakes his head a little. "Can't open the doorknob," he chuckles weakly before it turns into another sob. Moving to him, I slip my hands under his arms.

"C'mon, lets get you back into bed…you're exhausted Dean, need some rest. And some food, I'll go and get some peanut M&M's, too, okay?" he nods weakly. "Alright, up," and I heave with my arms, pulling him up until he sways forward into my chest.

"Sorry," he grunts, pushing against my chest to steady himself. "'M up, I c'n walk." Ignoring him, I gently pull his arm over my shoulders, clasping my arm around his waist, I get him to the bed, ignoring Bobby's death glare. He's annoyed, and I know he's right, I have to give Dean his space, or he's going to do something stupid, but all the same, I'm not going to let him hurt himself, either. Pulling the blankets back on his bed, I let him settle in on his own, other than when he weakly tries to pull the blankets up over his shoulders I take his hand and pull the blankets up myself. "Don't need to mess up your fingers," I tell him, considering he couldn't really do it himself. Pulling them up over his shoulders, I made sure to pile several of them on. Considering he'd cooled down enough to be safe, but he keeps shaking all the time. Lightly patting his shoulder, I move away from his bed. I won't hover.

"Bobby…" I can't say it, but I'm scared. Scared I'm not going to be able to help Dean like he needs me to. Not how I want to help him, but how he needs to be helped and taken care of. Scared I'm going to smother him and drive him insane, and that he'll go off and do something stupid, or that I'll stand back and watch him fall.

"He'll be fine, Sam." That's just like Bobby, to always know what I'm thinking. Dean, too. Sometimes I think he understands us better than anyone. Better than we even understand each other. I just wish that I could really tell Bobby how much he means to us.

When Dean wakes up again, I've already been to the store. I figure I can use M&M's as bribes. Basically I'm going to give him the whole bag, and he's going to let me check the stitches on his back, because they were looking inflamed.

"I've got food," I offer, holding out some chicken chow mein. I know it's not something he really likes, but it's got vegetables, grains, and meat in it. I would have gotten beef, because he needs iron, but the local grocery store didn't have any. "I also have some of that Propel stuff," because well, it's the same as Gatorade, I just don't hate it. I don't think Dean likes it, but he likes things that are carbonated and designed to kill you in twenty years. I put it down, "The…there's stuff…"

--

I can tell from his tone he's trying to soften something he thinks is going to upset me. "What?" I can hopefully feed myself just fine. So I don't get what his problem is.

"The doctors, uh…" he rubs the back of his neck, and I fling my pillow at him. It misses, but I feel better. "They have some pills they want you to take," he spits out in one giant word. After a few seconds my brain catches up, and I shrug.

"So?"

"Well, are you going to take them?"

"As long as they don't make me sleepy or whatever…I mean, it's just antibiotics and stuff, right? To help heal from the surgery?" He looks so relieved I know something's up. "Okay, what the hell are they?" I look around the room, trying to figure out where they are. There's a bag on the nightstand, and I reach over, groaning, and grab it before Sam can stop me. Pulling the bag open, I dump the pills in my lap, picking up the bottles and looking at them. Oxycodone, I'm not taking, basic antibiotics like I thought, something I don't recognize, but from the 'ingredients' it looks like an anti-depressant. I paid attention in Chem-com, hoping we'd learn to blow something up. Waste of time. Although the drugs unit was interesting; and making bouncy balls turned out to be worth while later because it drove Sam insane. Because they got harder and would make clicking sounds when they bounced, and he would be trying to do homework, and would eventually snap. And a whole butt-load of vitamins. Iron, Calcium, Magnesium, Zinc, Vitamin C, D, various B's, and a couple others, and I'm supposed to take all of these? With food? Where's the food supposed to go?

"I'm supposed to take all these?!"

"Uh…yeah…"

"Where're they supposed to fit, exactly?"

"I…have no idea."

"I'm not taking this one," I tell him, tossing him the oxycodone. That stuff messes me up. It's like vicodin, but for some reason it's worse for me. It makes me nauseous and really dizzy. "Or this," I toss him the anti-depressant. No way.

"Dean…" It's his whiny-Sammy voice.

"Dude. You seriously think I'm depressed, Sam? You think me taking some goddamn pill is going to fix the fact I went to hell? Are you kidding me?! I'm not taking this Sam, I don't need it! I'm not depressed!" I'm up on my feet, which doesn't last long, because my legs give out, and I end up sitting down again. "And I'm not friggin' going to take it!"

"Alright, calm down! Before you break something!" Sam snaps at me, but I know he's just trying to act normal. And I'm a little shocked at my outburst, too, so he's not the only one. "You'll take the vitamins and antibiotics, though, right?"

"God Sam, yes. I'll take all the other friggin' pills." Vitamins. "But dude, there is nothing wrong with me. Okay?"

"Dude, there're a lot of things wrong with you." Then he grins, and I can't help but realize that yeah, regardless of hell, there're a lot of things wrong with this whole stupid world. I mean, even Cuba has free health care. Are you kidding me? I grew up thinking Cuba was the devil of all countries, with their leader and all that. Hell, we treat our POW's in Guantanamo Bay better than we do our citizens. Sure, they helped blow up our trade towers, killed our Americans, but hey, they get free dental! If I wasn't a hunter, I would start writing letters to the government about it. Just think, maybe if there was free health care, it wouldn't be such a bitch for me to get medical attention, or Sam, or any other hunter on the face of the earth. That just pisses me off a little. If only I could vote. I mean, I could sort of. But, not legally, and I just. Son of a bitch.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Let's move to Cuba."

"What?!"

"They have free health care."

"You're so weird."

"No I'm not, god you're a bitch."

"Well you're a huge jerk."

Grinning at Sam, I feel a little better. A little more human. The more that time passes, the less human I was feeling, but insulting Sam, that always seems to make me feel a little better, so long as he's not taking me seriously. _Dude, what'd you call me a bitch for? You…you're supposed to say jerk. Just forget it._

Glancing at the door, I start to panic when it opens, but it's only Bobby. My chest heaving, Sam keeps shooting me funny looks, but Bobby ignores it. Picking up the Chinese food, I decide I'm going to act like they're not staring at me. Thankful that for once, Sam didn't bring me chopsticks –I can use them, I just don't see why I should, when a fork works just fine. Chopsticks are for impressing hot Asian chicks and sorta clutzy white chicks. Not for eating. Maneuvering the fork into my left hand, I stare at it for a while. This feels wrong.

"Dean, aren't you right handed?" Bobby asks, before I realize that's what felt wrong, and I transfer the fork to the three working fingers of my right hand.

"Yeah. Just…was trying to hold it better. Y'know?" Yeah, sure, that's what I was doing. I'm not losing my friggin' mind.

--

It's painful to watch Dean eat. It's always painful, but it's usually painful for an entirely different reason. For probably the first time in my life, I feel like going over there and feeding him myself. Half the time he loses the food before he can get it to his mouth, because his hand's so shaky. This is John's kid. The one who was always good at picking locks because his hands were steady. Sure. He was controlled. The one who was good at fine tuning things and taking care of his car, and guns. This is the one who built his own damn EMF meter. I mean, he's got skills with his hands. And apparently there is something going on upstairs, for all sometimes I'm not sure. I can see the frustration in his face, and want to kick Sam for staring.

"Sam." When his head jerks around to look at me, I sigh. "Why don't we go over some maps I found, I've been finding a lot of demon activity lately."

"I can help!" Dean says, and it's almost a plea.

"Shut up and eat your damn food," I snap. Yelling at him's going to work better than pitying him or coddling him. Same as John. Why do all Winchesters have to have such thick goddamn skulls? Looking at Sam, he moves over to his bed, and I spread out a few maps. "It's all centralized here," I point out it's really not that far from where we are now. "A lot of strange possessions, a lot of spirit sightings, Sam, something's up. I know you've ended a lot of demons this past year, but not two-hundred." Sam's brows pull together on his face as he thinks, pulling at his jaw. Something he learned from Dean, who got it from John. Just about breaks my heart when they do things like that. Damnit John. Didja have to make them just like you? I wince when the food spills from the fork back into the Styrofoam container. Biting my lip for a half second, I smooth my beard before tugging at the bill of my cap to straighten it. Damnit Dean. It's hard to keep Sam's attention off his brother, but I've managed to get Sam's back to Dean, so he can't make things worse. Not that he'd do it on purpose, but with each other, these boys have no tact at all. You'd think dealing with people and having to be tactful would have other applications in their lives, but apparently not. Then again, they always surprise me with how stupid they can be. Well, I think it's a surprise.

"Sam, something's acting up, something big. I don't know if it's one major demon, or a whole bunch of more minor ones, but something's going down." Fortunately it's not end of the world big. That didn't go so well last time_. Just let it end!_ _Haven't I given enough?_ Yeah Dean, you have. Unfortunately, there's no big power sitting there keeping checks and balances for you. Whatever you give, it's never going to be enough. That's what life is, it just keeps taking until it breaks you. And I'm sorry.

"I get it Bobby, I do." Dean eventually gets disgusted with his lack of ability to even really feed himself, and flings the fork across the room. Well, at least he ate most of the food, I'm just hoping he doesn't pull _A Christmas Story_ on me and start eating like the 'little piggies'. Because if he does that, he just might not live to see tomorrow.

"Dean…" I let my voice trail off at the expression on his face. "Get over here," I tell him. He stands up, unsteadily, and Sam starts to rush over like a nanny to go help his brother, and I barely catch the collar of his shirt before he can do it. "Sam…" I leave the warning in the air. It works better that way with these boys. With Dean, if you tell him what you're going to do, he won't care. If you leave it up to his imagination, he'll damn well behave himself. Sam's about the same way. Each step Dean takes makes me wince a little, and I'm not sure stopping Sam was such a good idea, but all the same, it's only a few feet, Dean can make it. When Dean finally drags his ass up in front of me, he sort of cringes like I'm gonna hit him or something. "What's a matter with you?" He just shrugs helplessly. I can see it in his face, something's eating him up inside. Not that it shouldn't be bugging him, whatever it is. But he's been acting funny. Not that I blame him. He goes in fits of trying to be normal and find himself again, to completely losing it. "Alright," I tell him, trying to be comforting. I'm scared we're going to lose him. And I'm worried that he's going to sink into himself and into a depression and just not come out of it. And I don't know how to keep it from happening. I don't want him to turn into John, only driven by revenge, or loss. I don't want that for Dean, he deserves better. But all he's ever had is hunting, and from how things're looking, there's a chance he won't even have that.

Doing something I generally try to avoid doing, I pull Dean into a hug, and after a few seconds at the most, I feel him start to tremble. Not sure if he's starting to cry again or if he's just wearing out that fast, I shift my arms on him, mindful of his injuries, so that if he needs to sit down, he can. He mumbles something that hits me hard, like a punch in the gut. _"I miss my Dad." _"Yeah, Dean, I know you do." Running my hand over his hair once, he pulls himself closer to me, trying to hold back a sob. Hurts all over again, doesn't it Dean? Losing your daddy.

"I let him down Bobby!" he chokes.

"No…Dean, never!" It hits me a little hard, realizing that John's last words to his boys weren't goodbyes. Not the conventional types. He probably finally outright told them he loved them. Bet it was like pullin' teeth, for him to admit it, but, looks like it left someone hurting bad. "Dean, you didn't let your daddy down." I can see Sam act like he's been sucker-punched. I know Sam figured Dean was aching from what John did. Damnfool thing to do, trading his soul like that.

"I need him Bobby! I need him back…"

"No, Dean…you don't _need_ him." You never needed him. "He needed you. Dean, he _loved_ you. That's why he went and made that deal. I know it didn't feel like that, but he couldn't stand the thought of waking up in a world without you in it. You hear me? He loved you, and he's the one who needed you. You took better care of him and Sam than he did you boys." I pull him closer, feeling him pull in on himself, and I catch him a little when his legs start to give out. Getting him sitting down, he doesn't really let go of my vest front, but he's trying pretty damn hard not to cry. And so I hold that boy close, because ain't nobody else ever bothered to do that. Just love him a little. John was too busy making his boys tough and making sure they didn't need him around that he made it so they couldn't function without him. Trying to find him again, and Dean. God Dean. "Shh, it's alright Dean. You didn't fail anyone. Alright? It's all gonna be fine." Because it is, goddamn it, it's all going to be fine. You'll heal, Dean. You'll get better. You've got to. We love you too much to hope for anything less.

--

"He shouldn't have died like that! He…he took hits and just kept coming! He should have gone out fighting, it's all my fault. I just -he was strong. And he just, he wasn't going to die, not my dad. I used to think that he was indestructible, he'd always be around, nothing could kill my Dad. And just like that, he's gone...he should still be here, Bobby. I was dead…I was supposed to be gone, dead things should stay dead!

"I failed him Bobby, if I hadn't gotten hurt…if I'd guessed earlier, figured out he was possessed, I coulda done something…" I let down the people I love. Just like I'm letting Bobby down right now, losing control again, "I didn't protect Sammy well enough, I let Sam get hurt, too!" I press my face into Bobby's old vest, trying so hard to escape what I'd let happen, like Bobby could really take back any of my mistakes. Like with the shtriga. I failed Dad, and I failed Sam that night…

My head hurts, so bad. Each time my heart beats and the blood pulses through me, my head throbs. It hurts to close my eyes, and it hurts to open them. I don't even know what I'm crying about, it hurts so bad. But I know I failed Dad and Sammy. But the tears, they're not helping. I hurt so bad. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for not being good enough. Sorry I can't ever be good enough. Just make it stop hurting. Just make it stop.

--

"No, Dean, you don't even get to think that!" Only it's Sam bursting out with it. I shoot him a warning look, because if that boy gets emotional, he's going to turn my life into a soap opera, and I've had enough drama to last me a lifetime and more. Not that I really mind Dean, or what he's doing. It's better than when he's fighting us, or yelling, or when he's not even there. I'd rather have him cry every couple hours than have to see his eyes staring at me, and know that John's son isn't there. I'd rather die than see his eyes that dull bottle-glass color again, and see how when he looks at Sam and me, it's just fear and no recognition. This is better. Then he starts to sob in earnest. "I know…I know," I tell him, because I get it. I do. It's stupid, and he doesn't owe his daddy anything at this point, but it doesn't mean he didn't love John. I don't really know what to do, but I rub his back a little, letting him lean into me. He outta just sob himself out for a while. Do him some good.

"Bobby, I'm sorry!" he chokes out.

"Fer what?!" Crying? Being upset? Missing John? Hell Dean, we all miss John. He was an ass, sure, but he was a damn fine hunter, and a good man. Horrible father, though, the idjit. He had two great boys, and he couldn't see it, not enough to be with them, he gave 'em up. "Dean…" I have no words. There's not much I can say to make this any better. I rock him a little, figuring it won't hurt. "Shhh…" it's easy to just gently shush him and try and calm him down. Easier than trying to find words of real comfort for him. What'm I supposed to say?

"He didn't love me Bobby…he only said it because he knew he was going to die!" There's a harshness there that wasn't before. Then he dissolves back into tears.

"That's not true, Dean, You know that's not true."

"He left me behind!" and this time it's a moan of agony that rattles my heart.

"He tried to protect you, best he knew how. Sure he's a real idjit, but he loved you all the same. Sam, too." Considering this sure struck a chord with Sam, too. John, you think you scarred 'em enough? Think you hurt 'em deep enough? You're dead and gone and you're still killing them. Hope you're damn well pleased with yourself.

"No, you don't understand! I failed him…I let him down…he's my dad, Bobby, and I let him down. I keep failing the people I love…I keep hurting them and messing up!" I want to tell him that's just what being human is. That sometimes it hurts, and of course you make mistakes, but you move on and you keep loving, because your family'll always stand by you and love you. But I can't get out the words. Instead of being able to share that with him, I take him in my arms and hold him. There aren't enough words in the world to fix the hurts here.

"Dean, you could _never_ fail me, or your father, or your brother."

--

The quiet conviction in Bobby's voice when he says that startles me. I pause in mid-sob, grateful for the lapse. I can't really breathe, and everything hurts so bad. Bobby kind of smells woodsy, to me. Like wood fires and the outdoors. Maybe it's just the vest and the trucker hat, but all the same I push my face into his vest, seeking the warmth and comfort of his affections. When he pulls me closer, I start sobbing again. I just wish Dad…I just wish that just once…Dad…

I wish that the only times he hugged me weren't because he figured he wasn't going to have to see me again. Like when we dealt with Meg and the Devas and he was in our motel. I wish he could have hugged Sam more, if not me. Could have loved us just a little more. I still don't know if I believe he ever really loved me. I know he loved Sam. The demon was right, even when he was fighting with Sam, that was more love and attention than he'd ever shown me.

I don't know how long it takes before I can get myself under control, seconds, minutes, hours? I just know that Bobby's gently rocking me back and forth a little, and it's all I can do to stop myself from trying to crawl into his lap, like I used to when I was little. Back when he used to baby-sit us –like he isn't now? -and he just took care of us. It was a lot of fun to stay with Uncle Bobby.

Thing about Bobby is he was always good at telling stories. Like Dad before Mom died. He'd get me'n Sam, me on one knee, Sam on the other, and just talk to us. Tell us stories. Sam was the ticklish one, so I was always safe from that indignity. But I just remember him talking to us, explaining the monsters and where they came from. He was like the old Indian tribal elder in the movies. Only Sam'd lean up against his chest, sucking his thumb and trying to stay awake, sometimes he'd have a blanket wrapped around him or something. Me, I'd always be fighting to stay awake, for all I was so interested. I'd've been damned rather'n fall asleep when Bobby was telling a story. I'd also tried so hard to be the tough older one, and keep myself from leaning on Bobby, relaxing into his embrace. Because I knew, I knew that he was like a father to me, and I was scared I was betraying my dad. Scared if I let myself love Bobby too much, that I'd be letting down my dad again, and I wouldn't be a good enough son. And that was why he didn't love me, I was too weak. I wasn't good enough to deserve his love, and that's why he didn't love me. He had to love Sam, Sammy was little, and so he needed it. I had to earn it. And I just couldn't. I tried so hard. But I'm not good enough. I can never be good enough.

Bobby, he's always been there. Always been willing to love me'n Sam, no matter how stupid he thinks we're being, our dad, too, and I never had to earn it. Closing my eyes gratefully, I inhale, breathing in the smell of campfires and the outdoors, letting myself rest. It's okay. I think. I think it's okay to just sit like this, letting someone hold me. I know I'm too old for it, but no one's going to know but Sammy.

"Thanks Bobby," I mumble into his shirt. And all he does is ruffle my hair in reply.

When I wake up again, I'm in my bed, Sam's clicking away on his laptop, and Bobby's gone.

"You up?" Sam asks from his spot in the chair.

"Yeah." My voice sounds okay. I feel better. "What happened?"

"You fell asleep on Bobby."

"Did not."  
"You probably even managed to drool on him, too."

"Did not!" I insist, I don't drool. Sam's the one who drools when he's dreaming about girls. All over everything. It's disgusting. But, I don't feel like pulling that card, I'm pretty sure I can save it for when it'll be really embarrassing. "Where is he?"

"Getting some sleep in his own room. Trying to figure more out about that hunt he was telling me about."

Telling me about. Not telling us about. Telling me about. I can't hunt anymore. Well, I might…it took years to get my body trained up right, now? It's taking so long to heal, when can I start training again? How'm I gonna get my body back into shape? I'm just dead weight. Brushing a hand over my face, I sigh.

"You never did take any of those pills."

"Yeah. Sorry. I said I was gonna. Maybe later, okay Sammy?"

"Sure…you okay, dude?"

"Yeah, I'm okay."

"You don't look okay."

"Sam." It's my warning voice. The one that tells him to shut up before he gets hurt.

"If you're okay, why don't you finish your food and take the meds?"

I hate Sam logic. "I don't feel like it."

"Well, you'd better start feeling like it real soon. You need to be taking those."

"Why Sam? Don't I do what everyone tells me often enough?!"

He rubs at his jaw. "This is different Dean, and you know it. You need to take them, because your body needs them!" I don't want to hear the slight whine to his voice when he yells at me. I don't want to take the pills. I toss Sam the Propel bottle, then start slinging the various pill bottles at him. I can't get any of them open. He seems to clue in, opening the water, and getting up to hand it to me, before opening all the pill bottles and figuring out what I'm supposed to take. "You gotta let me take a look at your back, too, okay?"

"Sam, I don't feel like it, okay dude?"

"Dean."

"What?!"

"I have peanut M&M's okay? Just take the vitamins and lemme check your back. You kept catching things on the stitches, and last time I saw them, they were looking inflamed, or we could take you back to the hospital."

"Bitch."

"Jerk." I take the pills quietly, it's hard to pick them up, but I just take one hand and use it to scoop them all into my other, putting as many into my mouth as I can before taking a decent swallow of water to choke down the pills. There had better be those damn M&M's.

--

I figure letting Dean have the peanut M&M's won't hurt. Peanuts have protein, which is something he needs. Chocolate has fat and sugar, something else he needs, so he can start building up his body again. And chocolate is a natural anti-depressant. It's especially helpful if Dean won't take the pills… I don't blame him. I wouldn't take them, either. I pull out the bag, tossing it to him, before realizing he can't catch. It hits him in the chest, and he grunts softly. I know it didn't hurt.

"Lemme see your back." He holds out the bag, and I realize I've become a walking can-opener. Well, close enough. _Blaine's not a name, it's a major appliance!_ Poor Ducky. I guess I'm a major appliance, too. Opening the M&M's I hand them back to Dean, cautioning him "don't eat them all at once dude."

"I'm not five!" he twists himself around so that he's not facing me, and starts crunching happily on the candy, and I can almost hear a satisfied grumble as he opens the bag a little more, so he can get his hand into it easier. Pulling up his shirt, he shudders a little, probably from sudden exposure to cold. Not that the room's chilly, but I don't think it's as warm as the insulation of his shirt. Checking the stitches, they look partially infected, slightly swollen and reddened. Not too bad, but I'm going to have to clean them and smear some antibiotic cream on them.

"You took the antibiotics right?"

"I took whatever you gave me to take," he snaps, before moving on to his next M&M. It appears to be easier for him to use his fingers to eat than a fork. Well I'll just have to make sure I don't try to get him to eat soup unless it's in a cup. Checking the bottles I just left open, yeah, I gave him the antibiotics. Good.

"Dean don't eat all of those!"

"I'm not!" he protests, before shuddering again when I fold his shirt carefully over his shoulders so that it won't slip back down over his back while I get our first aid kit out. Carefully cleaning up the inflamed skin and doing my best with the stitches, I smear the cream over the jagged cut, shoulder to opposite hip, before I gently tug his t-shirt back down. Sighing, I rub the residue on from my fingertips onto Dean's neck, making him turn around to give me the evil eye. At least to try to, because he's just too pleased about the sugar hitting his system to care much about anything I'm doing.

"Those are like drugs for you, aren't they?" I'm just joking, but I'm probably going to have to take them away from him, and he's going to get mad at me. I half expect him to snarl. Dean is like a dog when you give him food, you don't try to take it away from him, because he _will_ fight you for it. I don't get it, I mean we never really went hungry. Dad wasn't that bad. We always had food. But no, Dean gets mean around food. Picking up the bag, I expect him to growl at me, I really do, and I take a small handful, and he just stares at me.

"Stop! God you're a jerk!"

"Gimme my M&M's you little bitch!" Dean snaps, reaching out one hand for the bag. "I didn't get that many!" Rolling my eyes, I hear Bobby coming in and twist to look, before Dean lunges for the bag, snagging it and face-planting into the end of the bed, with a satisfied 'got it'.

"Bobby," I begin, and he gives me an apprehensive look.

"What?"

"Remind me Dean's not allowed to have sugar. Ever. Again." He's not really being that bad. When he has too much coffee, that's when we have problems. In fact all he wants is the stupid M&M's, and I just don't want him to make himself puke.

"Dean, how many of those you eat?"

I can see Dean's brow furrow as he thinks about it, trying to count. "Two of each color," he says, before selecting a blue one and popping it into his mouth with a satisfied crunch. I could almost laugh. Because he looks like a puppy that knows it's done something wrong, but it's decided it's too cute to get into trouble. I can promise Dean isn't as cute as he thinks he is, and it's not going to work.

Bobby just takes the bag and a handful and Dean doesn't do anything. He just stares. Before breaking into a broad grin, that involves Bobby throwing a red M&M at him. It hits Dean square between the eyes, making me laugh. Mainly because he reacts about five seconds after it happens. Eyes squinching shut and jerking his head back with his chin tucked down, it's pretty funny. Bobby seems more concerned, but I think Dean's reflexes are catching up, not getting worse. Before I know it, we're all relaxed and laughing, joking around. Deciding Bobby can have the candy, Dean settles back into the bed, laboriously tugging the blankets back up before making a slight show of settling himself under them and pushing his head into the pillow. Bobby rolls his eyes at the same time I do, and I grin.

I know Dean just wants us to feel like we can talk about the hunt, and not have to worry about hurting his feelings or something like that. Teasingly, I walk over and sit on the edge of his bed, lightly petting his hair before he bats my hand away.

"Bad Sam." Lightly gripping his shoulder, I stand up and move back to the chair I started in, tapping a few keys on my laptop to bring the screen up again.

"Any new word?" I ask Bobby, more worried about Dean than a hunt, but still. Someone's got to go around saving people and hunting things. It's the family business.

"I can't find anything." Bobby sounds so irritated, I smile a little.

"Since when do we ever get lucky?"

Dean looks up, for all he was pretending to be asleep. "I get lucky all the time. You just have to be friendly. Girls aren't that hard to get," he grins. Shrugging self-effacingly, I roll my eyes at him.

"Go back to sleep!"

"And if I don't…?"

"I don't have to let you have the M&M's back."

"Like you can stop me taking them."

"Boys!" Bobby snaps, he can't take us doing that for very long. I'm pretty sure it's because it just drives him insane to hear us talking after about five seconds, but whatever. Dean grins sheepishly enough that I find myself grinning broadly at Bobby.

"Sorry."

"I swear…you two really are like an old married couple," Bobby sighs, before peering at the map again, and setting down some books he'd brought in with him that I hadn't noticed before. "Dean?"

"Yessir?"

"Don't yessir me, you know better. C'mere, what'd you make of this?"

--

I carefully slip the covers off my body, I'm really sleepy, and wish they'd both just leave so I could take a nap, but I don't think it's going to happen any time soon. Then I get dragged into it. Not that I don't wan to help, or hunt again, but I'm tired. And it doesn't really…matter like it used to. I don't care like I did. I can't explain it, but all I want to do is sleep. Standing up, pain spikes up my legs and my vision goes dark for a few seconds before I take my first shaky step towards them.

"Why can't you guys bring stuff to me? It's always 'Dean do this, Dean do that, Dean c'mere, Dean go there'" I bitch, just to cover how shaky my movements are, and the fact I almost face-plant into the hideous motel carpet. It's the color of baby barf. I don't want my face connecting with it for any reason. I grip onto Sam's shoulder, using him like a crutch as I move closer to the map, settling into the chair Sam'd been using. Mine now. Looking at it, I don't see a pattern. Then again my memories slip like water through my fingers, I think I've got them, and then they're gone. Staring at it for a while, I half wonder if they're testing me. I can't think. Can't remember any of the hunts I've been on. I'm trying so hard, I don't want to fail them. Don't want to fail Bobby, but I can't remember. My head's pounding.

A drop of water hits the map, and I look up, wondering if the roof is leaking, before something tickles my cheek. Bobby grips my shoulder.

"Guess I'm letting you guys down again," I mumble, rubbing at my eyes. Damn, I'm crying again. I can't remember sometimes. And it makes my head hurt, trying to. "Bobby, I can't…"

"It's okay Dean, whatever it is, we'll work it out, okay?"

"No, you don't understand, I don't…I don't…sometimes I can't…" he sits down next to me, and it's almost too much to handle. I don't get why they're supporting me like this, I don't deserve it. I just mess things up; I woulda figured they'd be sick of me by now. "I can't remember, sometimes." I hear my words slur, and I cringe.

"Dean, you okay?" Sam sounds panicked. He always sounds panicked when he asks me that. I don't really know why, I ask him the same question all the time, and I don't freak out. At least, I don't think I do. Not every time. I can't remember. I'm not going crazy. Rubbing at my eyes again, it never does any good. Bobby pulls me close to him in a one-armed hug, and I want to rail against the contact. I don't deserve it! I don't need it, I haven't needed it for years.

I just wanted it…

Pulling away from Bobby, I try to stand up, it takes an extra try, when my legs dump me back down to my seat the first time. "I'm okay." I could use a beer. Hell, I could use an entire bottle of something with alcohol in it. Sam comes after me.

"Dean, dude," his voice is soft, so understanding, and then I see the pity in his eyes, and I feel the rage boil up inside me. The moment he reaches out to touch me, I pull away, tempted to punch him. I want to, so bad. I just want him to hurt as bad as I am, just for a second, so he'll stop it, and leave me alone. I don't want his goddamn pity. I don't want his understanding, either, I don't want him. I want Dad. I want Dad to come in, and yell at me, tell me to toughen up, suck it up and keep going. Help me fix whatever's wrong, because I can't hunt, so I'm no good to him. He wouldn't lie to me like they are, drag me on like I have a chance. I don't.

I don't think I'm ever going to get better.

When Sam lightly reaches out to grip my shoulder, I find myself reacting. Funny how that works, but next thing I know Sam's on the floor holding his chin, and Bobby's shouting at me, and Sam's shouting at Bobby.

"What the hell d'you think you're doing?!" Bobby yells at me.

"No, Bobby it's fine!"

"Screw you." I don't know who I'm saying it to, but Bobby gives me a look. I don't care. I suddenly feel strong again, normal almost, like that phantom memory –like when you hear about someone who lost a limb, but still feels it. That's how my strength feels. My hunter's instincts. I'm just a walking shadow. I don't bother with shoes or a jacket, they don't even occur to me when I walk out the door. I've had enough of this, whatever this is. It's freezing, but I'm burning up inside, and the cold on my skin tempers me. Cooling my rage, but not quickly enough.

I don't know where my strength is coming from.

Breaking into a light jog, I just want them to leave me alone. I've done enough damage. And I've had enough. It feels good, this energy running through my body. I'm so used to be shaky and weak, so used to being tired out. This feels perfect, my feet silent on the pavement. It's like when after running a long time, you hit your stride, that perfect lope you know you can keep up for hours. Even though I've never really had to do more than run two miles. I'm not a distance runner, and I don't really even like running. But this feels good, I can barely feel the tug of the stitches, My breathing's even, everything's just working perfectly. Like it should be. I don't know where I want to go, I just know I need to get away from Bobby and Sam. Before I hurt them worse. Being out in the country, there're a lot of low fences, and I ran hurdles. Dad approved of some sports, so long as you didn't take time away from training and hunting, and soccer wasn't on his 'hunting skills' list of things to do. But things like Track and Field were fine. Baseball was even better, to Dad. You built up your body, learned to throw –you had to throw knives after all. Track you run after demons, or away, in a lot of cases. When you read about wolves, and how they just run and run…that's how I feel. Not like some lame-ass lone wolf or anything, just free to run. For once, running feels good.

It's not the pain exploding in my chest from trying to draw in ragged breaths between the terror and the fight for air. It's not my legs aching and burning from exhaustion and strain, the agony of my shoulder right under the collar bone where it hurts when I can't relax when I'm running, the way I feel nauseous, and the fear that I'm too slow, I'm not running fast enough, the way my legs speed up, pumping faster, trying to get wherever I'm going that much faster.

This is different. It's easy, I'm not jogging, I'm running, but it's nothing. I can breathe fine, the air's cool, but not so cold it hurts. I can't breathe well in the cold air, not enough oxygen or something, I dunno. Sam had some long explanation about it, because one winter Dad thought I had asthma I kept coughing so hard after anything real physical outside. Sam figured since I was fine inside during gym class it just had to be the cold. Some people have trouble in cold weather. I used to be okay with it. Up until that one hunt, since then I've never been able to deal with it well. Guess it was kinda funny to Sammy'n Dad. Then it just got annoying. I tried.

Glancing at the fence I'm running towards, I remember those hurdles I used to run, and how much fun it was. I hated being in the meets, and because of hunting, I never had to anyway, but there's something to running for the joy of it. Not sure if I can even make it, I don't care, and let my body slip into a memory, vaulting over the low fence. As soon as my foot hits the ground, I spin on it, turning to look. No Sam. No Bobby. But I don't feel like walking.

Maybe…maybe if I can run fast enough, I can get away from all of it. Kinda like Superman, where he flies so fast he makes time turn back. Maybe I can get free. That's all I want.

I don't notice the rain at first, not until I'm soaked and it runs into my eyes. I stopped running once the grass got high, it just wasn't worth the effort. Funny, how my body starts to tremble with exhaustion. I should get near the road, don't need to be shot for trespassing.

--

After slipping and falling in the mud a few times, Dean pulled himself up to the fence, shaking his head to clear his vision, crystal sparks spraying away from his hair. His body starts to shake strongly, as he staggers forward, hands gripping the rough soaked wood, splinters deflected by the sopping bandages protecting his hands as he pulls himself upright. Heaving his body over the fence, he landed flat on his back, the air knocked out of him, chest heaving and straining for air, water blinding him. Managing to roll onto his front, he dragged his body closer the road, curling into a ball. Forcing himself up, he continued walking down the road step by agonized step head hanging until he dropped again, letting the water strip him of the will to live as he faded away.

The cold soaking into his bones froze him, stripping the heat of his anger, the warmth of Bobby and Sammy's love, leaving him alone, cold, and empty.

"_I'm sorry." _Dean whispered, as he gave in to the pain and cold, sinking gently into the embracing darkness, cushioned by regret.

_(reviews? and bonus points for anyone who gets the 'rememory' reference. :) anyways, reviews to continue. hope you all enjoyed so far) _


	12. Chapter 11: Going Under

_(Thank you for everyone who reviewed, alerted, etc. Love you all. As per usual, thanks to my beta, Merisha. :) She's amazing. Any errors are my own, probably because I don't have time to re-read anything. Enjoy.) _

**Chapter 11: Going Under**

Sam and Bobby searched frantically for Dean, Sam driving out in the Impala, searching for his brother with Bobby staying close to the motel, in case Dean came back on his own.

The two had sat stunned after Dean took off, his body like normal; that beautiful tiger's grace sliding around him, cocooning him with his anger, and taking him away from them. The rain began to fall an hour after Sam started searching, as though the sky cried with the young man, bleeding empty tears.

By the time Sam recovered from his initial shock to go after Dean, he'd been a little too late, Dean had disappeared from view. Thinking he'd seen his brother, Sam had searched some of the area on foot, before climbing into the Impala to search faster.

Dean's broken body lay near the side of the road, mirroring his soul, as the ice of the rain drew the heat off his body, his love, and his will to live, pulling him away with each drop running in rivulets down the road, drawing away from him in trails of pink and red. The stitches on his back had broken with his exertions, freeing the crimson stains, allowing the water to tug it in dancing eddies down the dark road, swirling helplessly in the pools of water and mixing into the soft mud.

A young couple driving down the slick road, water spinning off the treads of their truck see a pile on the side of the road. Driving past, the woman cries out, her words rending the peace of the night, shattering brightly against the rhythm of the rain.

"Stop the car!" Her plea means nothing to the man lying there, the life slipping slowly out of his body, turning his flesh a cold blue that turns grey as his breathing slows ever more gradually, each crystal tear playing his life away, crimson whorls dropping into the dark.

"Oh my god do you think someone ran him over?!" her voice is shrill and terrified, and the man slipping down out of the truck crouches down.

"He's still alive, oh god, look at all the blood! Quick find a blanket or something! Hurry up, he's freezing!" The man could feel Dean's soft heartbeat pulsing against his fingertips, fading gently away, like the sound of butterfly wings.

In a pool of his own blood, Dean had fallen into a slight depression in the dirt at the side of the road, the water creeping up higher, seeking to cover his body. The man lifted Dean halfway up out of the mud, seeking the source of the blood that coated Dean's entire back. Eventually his seeking fingers felt the heat on Dean's back and pulled his shirt up, "Oh god." With his wife's help, the man was able to lift Dean into the truck precariously placed between both of them, to keep him warmer. "Where'd he come from? There's no one around for miles," he said softly to his wife.

"There was a motel not too far back. He's bleeding badly, but I haven't seen a hospital…"

"Maybe someone at the motel knows him, but we can probably get him in there and keep him warm until an ambulance comes."

"Does he have any ID on him or anything?"

"He's not even wearing shoes…tore his feet up good."

"Keep putting pressure on the bleeding. Maybe we can slow it down."

"How far was the motel?"

"Not much longer, I don't think."

They passed Sam, the Impala's engine roaring defiantly against the darkness.

When they pulled into the parking lot, Bobby was standing under the eaves, watching for some sign of Dean, seeing him in the truck with two other people, Bobby shot for the vehicle, all caution and sense of propriety gone, he had to get to Dean.

"Dean!"

"Do you know him?"

"That's my nephew, this is my nephew, c'mon Dean, wake up!" Bobby helped the man who introduced himself in a soft southern accent, calling himself Phillip. The woman's name, Alana. Between the three of them, Dean is gently carried into the motel room and settled on his front, so Bobby can remove the now useless sutures and stitch in new ones.

"Excuse me a minute," Bobby dials Sam as he opens the first aid kit, pulling out what he needs, phone held between his ear and shoulder, "Sam, I found Dean. Get your ass back here, now." Threading the needle carefully, Bobby sighs heavily, and begins to work on Dean's back, knowing the young man's fever is back, despite the icy feeling to his skin. His forehead's too hot, and his face is flushed. He's not shivering, though. Too cold to shiver.

"What happened to him?"

--

I sigh in annoyance, as I almost miss the stitch I'm trying to make, which would involve needlessly stabbing Dean with the needle. "He's suffering a little from shell shock, he hasn't been back from Iraq very long." Now leave me alone so I can work! It's a big ass cut! Deep, too, it bares muscle. Damnit Dean. Did you have to go and do this to yourself? He walked out on us some time around eight at night, and it's almost sunup. Damnit Dean. When Sam burst in the door, I look up at him, our eyes meeting, and we share a moment of perfect clarity.

--

I come over to Dean, watching Bobby. Something's wrong. More wrong than usual. Checking Dean's pulse, there isn't one.

"He's not breathing!" It hurts so bad, but Bobby's already flipping Dean onto his back, and starting CPR. The couple in the room seem pretty freaked, and we're all soaking wet.

"Dean please…" I whisper, please breathe. Please come back to me. Please stop waking up without knowing us, or anything. Please get your strength back; please...just be my big brother again. I don't feel the tears running down my cheeks, but I know they're there.

When Dean first inhales on his own again, so slow…soft, Bobby turns to me.

"Sam, he's not fighting."

"No! He's Dean! He's always fighting, Bobby!"

"Sam, he's not fighting."

"No…please, no…" I move over to my brother, shoving Bobby away. Pulling Dean up into my arms, I feel the tears come faster. "Please…no…Dean!" Is this how he felt? Cradling my body as the life slipped out of me…my back ripped open at the spine? Knowing that nothing he could do would save me, feeling the heat of my blood stealing the warmth from my body, tugging my life away, and dripping into the ground…is this how he felt? "Dean!" Rocking him back and forth in my arms, I hold him to my chest. "Don't leave me!" rips itself from my throat before I can stop it. I don't want these strangers seeing this. This is my brother, and I can't live without him. I did it once.

I didn't want to waste what he sacrificed for me. Dean gave up his life for me, and so I can live it for him, the way he would have wanted, I guess. I know that Dean figured since Dad saved him, it was 'fate' so that he could give up his life for me. I know that. Dean's always thought he was worthless, but he's not! He's not! I need him! I don't want to keep on living if Dean's not going to be around! And this time, if I lose him this time, I'm ending things, I'm going out with him. This time it wasn't some sacrifice he made, if he gives up, I'm giving up too! It's not like Dean ever liked being alone, so I won't let him be.

"Don't leave me alone!" Gripping him, my hands seek purchase, like I can pull him back from wherever he is, wherever he's leaving me for, if I can just get the right hold on him.

"Sam…" It's Bobby's voice.

"NO!" he's not dying, he's not giving up! He's my brother! Dean never quits, he just keeps going and going. That's Dean. He's like the energizer bunny, just less creepy.

And he was right, when they had that commercial with the aliens, it would have made more sense if they probed the bunny instead of just hooking up jumper-cables to its ears.

"Sam, c'mon son."

"He's still breathing Bobby! He's my brother, and I'm not giving up on him!"

"Sam, we gotta get him to a hospital then."

"If we take him back they won't let him leave again! He hates hospitals Bobby, he _hates_ them. I won't do that to him!"

_I'm not all right, not at all. And neither are you…that much I know. _

His breath is so light. It's like a slight…he's barely breathing. "Dean…" I moan, rocking him still. "Wake up, please wake up. Dean!" I want to hit him, shake him…sobbing into his shoulder, I keep rocking. I can't stop the movement, I'm barely aware of it, just enough to notice that Dean's weight shifts along with mine. His clothes are wet, soaking into mine. Not that I wasn't already pretty wet from before, but it's not doing us any favors. I see his blood soaking from his pants into mine, watching the red spread up the fibers. He's so cold. "Bobby, you gotta stitch him up!" I'll get you warm, Dean, don't leave me! Bobby just looks at me, and I don't know what he sees in my face, but his reaction scares me. But he starts working on Dean's back again, and I can't stop crying. "Please Dean, don't leave me. God don't let him leave me, Dean stay with me, please, keep breathing. Don't leave me, I need you, dude, you're supposed to be a pain in my ass, trying to protect me all the time. Guess it's my turn to save you for a change, okay? But you gotta stay alive…please, don't stop fighting, Dean." I can't do this without you anymore, man. You've always been there for me, always. What'm I supposed to do without you, huh? I can't go back to Stanford, not since Dad died, there's no point in going back, no one to prove I can be normal to. And I couldn't leave Dean alone. Not any more than I could bring Mom and Jess back could I ever abandon Dean. Bobby stitches him up the rest of the way. The couple's standing there, probably talking to Bobby, but all I hear are Dean's soft ragged breaths as he struggles to breathe. Bobby done, I start rocking again, wishing the strangers would just go. Lifting Dean up, my body protests, I'm exhausted, and I ache. He's heavy. He's my brother, he ain't heavy. I can bear his weight as long as I have to.

I drag him into the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind us, before turning on the water, hoping it'll get hot soon, as I work his soaking clothes off, god he's so cold. I pull the bandages off his hands, leaving the splints on his fingers and the Band-Aids over a few fingertips to protect where the nail was. Those don't matter, but the cloth…it's just keeping the cold and wet in. He's filthy, I notice, at first just supporting him in the tub and doing my best to get the mud and blood off of him, before he starts to stir slightly, inhaling the tiniest bit deeper.

Unless I'm imaging things, but I swear I saw his eyelids flicker. As he starts to heat up, and some color starts coming back to his skin, I've got my arm around his shoulders, leaning halfway into the tub my stomach pressed against the lip of it, his head resting against my chest, he moans softly, and the water starts running clear, the blood's all washed away. I carefully lean forward, trying to be easy on him as I push the plug down so that hot water'll stay, and keep him warm. I let it fill about halfway, considering the water's bordering on hot. But he's so cold. I know what it's like, to have my hands so numb they hurt, and then to expose them to lukewarm water, and how much it hurts and burns, like the water's a good hundred degrees hotter.

He stirs again, I know it, I'm not imaging the soft flicker of his eyelashes as they flutter open, half seeing me for a few seconds before they close, the soft moan of pain that floats free of his throat, the way he turns his head a little, his hands twitching as he pulls one leg up closer to his chest.

"Dean?" his eyelids flicker open again, trying to focus on my face, I don't think he can. Splashing weakly at the water, I'm not sure what he's trying to do, and I take his hand, his good fingers clamping down on mine with a force I didn't believe he could exert. "Don't hurt yourself," I tell him, unwilling to move my arm from around his shoulders. Pulling him a little closer, I hug him, letting the warm water soak into my clothes, I don't care. "You ever do that again, and I will end you." He blinks wearily at me, almost like he's high. "Dude, talk to me."

"srry Smm" he slurs, and it takes me a couple of seconds to realize he's apologizing. To me.

"No, Dean, dude, it's fine. It's okay, really. Man, just…just, don't even try to talk, I'm sorry. You okay? I mean…damnit." I'm probably confusing him, and he's acting like he has a concussion. I know he doesn't, he's just…groggy. Tired. Worn out. The water's cooling off, but I don't know if it's just getting to a more normal temperature, or if it's actually getting cold. "You think you can sit on your own a half a second?" I ask him, considering my clothes are still wet and cold, and I'm starting to shiver. I'll get some dry clothes and change. Hopefully those people are gone. I passed them on the road.

I woulda seen Dean on my own, so I guess I'm not that grateful they brought him back, because…that's more people who know he's not okay. And they might call an ambulance, and try and take him away from me. And I'm not going to lose him. He nods a little so I carefully lower him down so he can lean against the gentle curve of the back of the tub, and I rush to grab clothes before returning to the bathroom, the couple are still there, talking with Bobby. Coming back into the bathroom I lock the door behind me. Helping Dean shift so he's at least comfortable, "you want the water warmed up?" he just looks at me, so I'm gonna take it as a 'no'.

The worst part of this is that I've seen Dean tired. We've both been pushed so far beyond our limits. But, neither one of us has ever been pushed so far we can't take it. I mean, we've been pushed beyond the limits of our endurance, but never enough to just give up. Never enough that we could even consider it, not with our training, and just so many other things. Like I couldn't leave Dean alone, and he wanted to protect me so badly, so we always just kept going.

--

I let the heat seep back into my bones, watching Sam, well not really watching, but I'm aware of him changing. Pulling on dry clothes. He's an idiot, he's just going to get wet helping me again. I know what I want to say, but I'm too tired to even open my mouth. He came after me. Bobby and him, they wanted me back. I don't understand why they'd do that. I've got blood ties to Sam, but Dad wouldn't have done the same, and Bobby has no reason…I can almost believe they love me. But there's no reason for them to. Not with everything I've done, and everything I haven't. I don't know which is worse, how I've hurt Sammy, or how much I just don't belong anymore. I wanted to come back, I wanted to keep my humanity. Wanted to hope that maybe I could…Sam would have moved on. I wanted him to be happy, I mean, I know he couldn't be really truly…at least, I could hope that he loved me half as much as I love him, and that things wouldn't be quite right without me. But, that he was better than me, he wasn't as weak, and he could move on with his life.

I guess he did, a little.

But, I should just die.

"You ready to get dressed and stuff? You look better." I want to talk. I'm ready. Yeah, help me up. Too tired, though, too tired to move, I know I should, I know I should talk, but my brain's too fogged to get out the words. Nod? Can I nod? Letting my head drop down I fight to pull it up again. I feel like a puppet with all the strings cut, or fraying, or the important ones missing. Lead, my limbs are like lead, I'm so tired. I want to move, I'm just too tired to. Almost like I'm already asleep, and just dreaming I'm hearing Sam talk to me. I'm sorry Sammy. Sammy, I'm so sorry. I can't do this. I just can't.

--

I pick up a towel, and help Dean to sit up before I wrap it around his shoulders, I figure it'll keep me from getting wet, and help him dry off some. And keep my grip from slipping, 'cause I gotta help him stand up. Getting my arms around him, I heave him up, and he tries to get his feet under himself, but he can't. C'mon Dean, fight it. I know he's hurt, I know he's sick, and I know…I know he's scared. Just like I know he's hurting inside, more than I could ever understand, and there's nothing I can do to fix it, because he can't seem to understand the one thing that would help. Bobby'n me, we love him. We'd do anything for him, but I know he can't stop thinking that he's some burden on us, and that we don't really care about him. Although it's not like Dad ever did anything to stop Dean being able to even think things like that. The way he treated Dean, sure Dean was the 'good son' because he was the one who did his best to keep Dad happy, so Dad just ignored him, figuring Dean was fine without anything, because he was doing everything right.

He never told Dean that. So Dean kept trying harder, figuring he wasn't doing enough, wasn't doing it right, and he's never really recovered from that. I don't think he can. I don't now how much of it Dean even realizes, himself. I'm sorry Dean. I'm so sorry.

"You lost a lot of blood, okay Dean? You're not gonna feel right for a day or two. You gotta eat something, though, or drink something. Alright? But you're going to be okay. I promise." I help Dean dry off, basically doing it myself, but it's okay. He's my brother, and I'd die for him. This is nothing. Helping him dress, I lift him up, knowing he's not going to be able to walk into the bedroom part of the motel room we're in. He sort of protests, I think, but I can't tell. "Wore yourself out, you jerk. Don't ever do that again, okay!?" I try and keep some of the snap out of my voice, but he scared me to death. Thought I was going to lose him again.

"He's okay Bobby, really. Just needs some water and some rest, and he'll be fine." The couple is still here, why, I don't know, but I'm a little pissed. That woman still looks freaked out, but her husband looks calm. Helping Dean settle into bed, I loop an arm around his shoulders using my free hand to pick up the half-empty Propel bottle, so I can coax Dean into drinking it. Unscrewing the lid, he's already falling asleep on me. "C'mon dude, just another few minutes." I couldn't let him sleep if I was afraid he wasn't going to wake up. Holding the bottle up to his lips, he eyed me before letting his eyelids flutter almost closed, as if condescending to tell me he'd drink the stuff if I'd leave him alone after. Helping him get the water down, I let him lie down before I tugged the blankets up over him. Glaring at the others, I guess I gave them what Dean calls my bitch-face, because Bobby gave me this look.

"Look, thanks for your help," I tell the couple, pursing my lips in annoyance, "But he just needs rest, and he'll be fine, and I'm sure you've got a journey ahead of you, and I wouldn't want to keep you any longer, Bobby, either."

"Actually Sam, they've been a lot of help," Bobby tells me. Like I care, as I turn to watch Dean, completely still in his bed, face a little flushed, but he's doing okay.

"Well Dean's always been a handful," I mutter, not sure why they're not leaving.

"Sam, you don't look so good, why don't you get some sleep?" Bobby suggests, gesturing for whoever they are to go with him elsewhere. Stay away from Dean. I haul myself up after them, to close and lock the door. Guess if Bobby wants in he'll have to knock, so I hope I won't have my hands full with anything. Dropping into my own bed, I barely have time to pull up the covers before I'm asleep.

--

Sam's acting awful funny, not much I can do about it just yet. Although can't say as I'm surprised.

"So, Phillip?" when he nods, I ask "you just found him on the side of the road?"

"Yeah, about five minutes drive from here, actually," he says helpfully. Well, his tone is helpful, but I'm not sure I think it's helpful.

"We were lookin' for him all over, where'd he manage to go not on the road?" Damnit Dean, did anyone else see you?

"Probably through the big field, I think he might have just cut across it," Phillip looks at Alana for confirmation, and she nods.

"So, you folks from around here?" I ask, trying to keep it casual. Draw their thoughts away from Dean and Sam. Jesus Sam, way to act funny.

"No, we're a few states over, actually, just passin' through." I nod, figuring this can't get any worse.

"We'll, we just picked Dean up, and we're headin' on home, too, but Sam's right, you two probably should get on your way, the storm's let up, and it'd be a shame if you all got caught in it again."

"You sure he's going to be okay?"

"Trust me, one way or another, these boys always end up okay." We exchange a few more pleasantries before they leave, telling me to thank Dean for his service. Well, he's certainly been a soldier for them for years, his daddy and brother, too. Deserves the thanks. I just don't like the lie. But it's as close to the truth as we can get. Going back to Sam and Dean's room, the door's locked. I'll let 'em alone for now, but tomorrow we're heading out to my place. I've had enough of this, and it'll be nice to have a kitchen to cook food in again. Maybe we can stop by the grocery store –god I sound like a housewife- and try and see if there's anything Dean'll actually eat, or anything Sam wants. Things'll sort themselves out.

--

When I wake up, it's dark in the room. Trying to force myself to breathe, I'm too weak to push myself up. "Smmm." Oh, great, I have no voice. It's dark. I can't see anything, it's not the dark that's bad, it's the not seeing. I couldn't see…there, either, it was just pain. "Smm!" C'mon Dean, buy a vowel. "Sam!"

"Whuh?" I can hear him shifting in the darkness.

"Sam…" I can't get anything else out. Just his name. I'm so pathetic. I wonder where he stashed the M&M's. Why's it dark? Sam, turn the lights on. Please, just turn on the bathroom light, you can half close the door and go back to sleep, okay? I feel the bed dip down, and cry out, panicked.

"Dude, it's me. It's fine," he grips my shoulder. I find his hand with my own, gripping it as best I can.

"Sam," c'mon Dean, talk, "dark." Oh, great. I sound like Oobi. Where's deadly lightning when you need it?

"Oh, man, I'm sorry. I totally forgot!" Damn right you did. But he sounds sorry, so he gets to live –this time.

"Dun feel so good," I'm really nauseous.

"Like…what kind of not feel good Dean?" Do I have to answer that?

"Did you drug me?"

"What? No!" Okay, he's not lying. Sam's voice squeaks when he lies, he just sounds annoyed.

"Feel like I took that oxycodone crap." I hear rustling, and go blind when the light in the bathroom flips on, and I hear Sam's muffled swearing. Okay, I take it back, light bad. Light very very bad. Turn it off. Eventually my eyes adjust, and I feel a little better.

"How you doing? Need some water?"

"Yeah, water's good." Don't think I can sit up, though, Sammy. I'm just dead weight man, I'm sorry. Still feel like my body's asleep. Paralyzed almost. Sam comes back over to me, helping me sit up. At least I can keep my own head up, and hold myself up once he's got me. I feel more than see him holding the water bottle up, and I move my hand to it. I can't grab it with only two fingers, so I don't even try, but I can at least let Sam know I'm ready for it. Drinking greedily, the water settles my stomach.

"Dude, slow down a little," Sam jokes, considering we both know if I could hold it myself it'd already be drained. Pushing his hand away, I've had enough.

"I want my hands back," I mutter irritably.

"If I could do anything about it, you know I would, right?" he asks me, turning that quasi-puppy dog–eyes look on me.

"Yeah, I know," I mumble. I shift away from him, trying to roll out of his hold, I guess.

"Y'know, if you want me to help you lie down or whatever, you can just ask."

"I don't need your help!" I'm doing some sort of accent, and I don't really know why, but it makes Sam smile, so I guess it works out. I'm too tired. He lets go of me, and I settle back down on the bed. "You wake me up, you die," I tell him. "Unless there is a very good reason. A reason involving one of three things: pie, booze, or women. Or all three, so I guess that's four." And the combinations are endless. "Basically, if your alarm goes off, I'll kill you."

"No worries," Sam grumbles, getting back into his own bed. "Like hell I'd set my alarm after having to get through today. Or is it yesterday already?"

I'm already too far gone to answer.

When I wake up again, the sun's up, Sam's already showered and is sitting and messing with his laptop. Pushing myself up off the bed, I pull my good leg up closer to my body, leaving the other stretched out. Yawning, I tug the top blanket off the bed and around my shoulders, I want to sit up, I'm just freezing. Settling against the headboard, I just watch Sam, wondering how long it'll take him to notice me.

Is he looking at porn?! Jeez, he's been Mother Goosing around, and now he's finally chilled. Guess things can start looking more like normal. Gotta pee. How long before Sam notices I'm up? Not long enough, probably. All the same, I swing my legs out of bed, pleased that they're doing what I want. God I'm sore, feel like I ran a good six miles or something yesterday. Oww…not to mention I'm all stiff. Damnit, this is not how I wanted to feel this morning. But I can walk. Feet hurt, what the hell? I manage to get to the door before Sam snores softly. He's asleep? That would explain it. Forgot he can do that with his eyes open sometimes. Catching myself on the door frame, I stagger into the bathroom, splashing water on my face. I take care of a few other morning things, grateful to wash my hands and stagger back into bed. Hands ache still, but I'm doing better, I think. Or I'm just compensating better. At least it's my hands I have to overcompensate for, not something else.

Crawling under the covers instead of trying to pull them up, I doze, in that eerie place between waking and sleeping. Several times I feel like I'm literally falling to sleep, only to jerk away before I 'hit' or slip into dreams. I hate that, that sensation you missed a step on the stairs, and then I shoot awake. Sam's still sleeping. Stretching out a little, I'm a little hungry. Then again, when I am ever not hungry? I ate all the time before…yeah. I think I did. Some things are easier than others to remember, on a daily basis. How long've I been back? Three days now? Something like that. Hey, does that mean I get to rise up to heaven now? I think someone's going to come burn me at the stake for blasphemy at some point. Can't hurt as much as hell, though. Looking over at Sam, is he drooling? Man, he's gonna drool on his laptop and fry himself.

"Smm?" Not again. "Sam!"

"Whu!?" he jerks awake, almost knocking the laptop flying, I cringe, waiting for the heavy thud and breaking sounds. Nothing. The arms of the chair caught it. Sam looks like he almost had a heart attack, before he starts wiping drool of his chin. I chuckle weakly.

"Sorry man…" hadn't meant for that to happen.

"What'd you wake me up for?"

"You were drooling all over everything…didn't want you to get it on the laptop. Dude, just go to bed if you're so tired." I'm doing better than he is, and I'm the one who's supposed to be a mess. What's his deal? "Didn't you sleep last night?" he fell asleep before I did, after I woke him up.

"I…I just don't feel like sleeping."  
"So why'd you get mad I woke you up?"

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Has anyone ever been nice when you've woken them up?"

"Well the girls love it if you wake them up for more-"

"Not what I meant."

"Sorry. I forgot you had no experience in that arena."

"Jerk."

"Bitch," I mumble, rolling over to go back to sleep. I'm still pretty tired, from just getting up to go to the bathroom, of all things. At least Sam didn't wake up. The less he knows the less he'll worry about me. Then something hits me. "Dude?"

"What Dean?" he sounds a little impatient. Tired.

"I…had a lot of….I didn't sleep too good, did I?" I roll over to see his face, so even if he tries to lie to me, I'll know the truth.

"No, you slept fine." His voice has that squeaky lying pitch it gets. Along with his face, I know it.

"I'm sorry Sam."

"No, it's fine, I slept fine, don't be sorry." I'm just a burden on everyone I love. I'm so sorry Sammy. I'll get better, I will. Then I can take care of you again. I know he's lying to me. It hurts that he would even think he had to.

"Dude, stop okay?"

"Dean, you're the one who…" Who what, Sam? Runs off? Has these ridiculous breakdowns all over the place? I know.

"I know, and I'm sorry."

"Well don't be!"

"Okay!" I look at the door, realizing it's locked. "You locked Bobby out?"

"No, Dean, I just locked the door for the night."

"You didn't yesterday," I mumble, deciding it's not worth it. "You shouldn't lock Bobby out." He's like Dad Sammy; you can't just be an ass to him and hope it works out.

I nap for maybe another few hours, Sam's soft snores wake me up. He's in his bed, sleeping like he should be. Stretching out, I'm careful of the stitches, I've been covered in blood enough lately. Yawning, I wonder if I can stand up long enough to shower. No, I gotta eat something first. Food's still on the bedside table. Hey, extra fork. I wonder if that one I threw it still there? Yes, it is. Hope no one steps on it. I'd rather eat the M&M's than cold Chinese take out. Take out's quieter, won't wake Sam up, no bag to rustle around. It takes a lot longer than I'd like, but I manage to get the rest of the food down.

Sam, wake up so you can open the water bottle for me. Ugh, there's gotta be a way to do this without hands. And without spilling it everywhere trying to get it open, because that just defeats the purpose. Maybe if the old one is still open, I can just refill it from the tap? Well, there's no point in drinking anything now, because Sam's just gonna make me take all those pills. Dude, up. Sleep later.

Well, if that isn't selfish…Okay Dean, you can get this stupid thing open. You can use your palm instead of your hand, anyway, little finger to thumb, and you've got enough grabbing force to pick something up. So…I get the water bottle clamped between my forearm and my ribs, using my palm to turn the cap. It works, for the most part. I do slop some water on myself, but a minimal amount, thankfully. I don't want to take any pills, wonder if Sam'll believe me if I said I did? Of course not. I can't lie to him any better than he lies to me. I just yell louder.

"Dude, how long've you been up?" Sam asks me, opening both eyes and pushing himself up from the bed, and straightening his rumpled clothes.

"Since time began," I tell him with a grin.

"Yeah, right."

"You snore like an old granny."

"I liked the first answer."

"Not my fault you keep asking questions you don't want the answers to." It's a warning, and I see in his face he gets it. Unfortunately, it also means he thinks there's something up that he should be asking questions about. Why do these things always backfire? Winchester luck, I guess.

"You sleep okay?"  
"We already discussed this." I reach out and grab the bag of M&M's. I ate the 'healthy' food, so, I figure this is dessert. Doesn't matter what time of the morning it is.

"You're not eating those for breakfast."

"No, I'm not. I already ate breakfast. These are dessert." Crunchy, chocolatey dessert. Did I mention they're mine?

"Don't eat all of those."

"What are you? My mom?" I slowly and deliberately pop another M&M into my mouth, eyebrows raised challenging Sammy to say anything. I'll kick his ass.

"No, Dean I just-" he huffs, then shakes his head. "Can I have some?"

"Dude, I had something healthy first. Besides, candy'll rot your teeth, and I'm supposed to watch out for you."

"Let's set something straight okay?"

"Like you? Sam, it was Brad Pitt, wasn't it? Instead of Angelina. We gotta do something about that…"

"Dean, I'm serious. Please." Oh…it's the puppy eyes. I hate those.

"Yeah, dude, I'm listening."

"You don't need to take care of me, you don't need to watch out for me. Okay? Pay some attention to yourself!" I waggle my hand, and raise my eyebrows. "Dean!" I couldn't resist. Really. I tried. Okay, I didn't, he set himself up for that one. "You're the one who's sick and hurting, okay? I'm doing great, thanks! Except when you keep making yourself worse, then I'm not alright! And Dean, as much as you fake it, I know you're not alright! So stop trying to hide it, and just…" Sam bites his lip for a few seconds. "Just trust me, okay? You're always throwing your life away for me, so, for once, just let it go. Alright? I'm here, I'm okay. I took care of myself for a year, Dean, I did okay in college, too."

"College was different, Sam," I start, before he holds up his hands to cut me off.

"No, Dean, it wasn't!" then he sighs. "You're my brother, and I'd die for you, and I watched you die once, wasn't that enough?" Feeling the rage well up within me again, I take a deep breath, as deep as I can, trying to keep myself calm. C'mon Dean, keep it together. It's Sam.

"And _I_ felt you _die_ in my arms!" I hear my own voice break, and then my face turns red, I know, because I can feel the heat of my cheeks.

"Dean…"

"I don't want your apologies Sam, you didn't stab yourself in the back! I was too slow, Sam, I saw him coming, and I didn't run fast enough, hell! I didn't figure out where you were fast enough, I didn't save you, Sam. I failed you, just like I failed Dad and he died because of me. It's my fault so don't ask me to stand aside Sam. I can't do that. It's my job to take care of your whiny ass. Don't ask me not to do my job Sam, I can't do that. I can't do that for you. I won't."

_All my dreams pass before my eyes a curiosity, don't hang on, nothing lasts forever but the earth and sky._

Sam's throat tightened as he kept in his tears. Dean didn't even try, letting the glistening tears run down his cheeks unheeded, because it didn't matter if Sam saw anymore. Dean's walls had been smashed so effectively he was suffocating in the rubble. The dust of it choked him, refusing to relent and let him breathe long enough to try and deal with the destruction around him.

I reach out lightly, touching my fingertips to Dean's cheek, lightly brushing away the tears, trying to begin to understand how he's feeling. I know I can't, not ever.

_No one knows what it's like, to feel these feelings like I do, and I blame you_

He's the one who went to hell, and he needed me. If anyone failed someone, it was me, and I failed Dean. Dad failed Dean, too. There was so much he could have been. I went to Stanford, I got a chance to realize I wasn't just a hunter; I was a human being, too. He wanted to be a firefighter. Go figure, I mean, all little kids have dreams like that, policemen, ballerinas –not in Dean's case certainly- but a firefighter? I always figured that given a choice, he'd choose hunting.

_But my dreams, they aren't as empty, as my conscience seems to be._

I pull away from Sam's fingers, wishing he'd just leave me alone. He just doesn't get it sometimes. I don't need his pity, or his sympathy. I don't need him to try and understand me. It's not like he can.

_No one knows what it's like, to be the bad man, to be the sad man, no one knows what it's like, to be hated, to be fated, to telling only lies_

My whole life I've been taught to follow Dad's footsteps. Killing things, saving people, the family business, it's taken over my life. I'm sick of this job. I'm sick of this pain, the weight on my shoulders crushing me so I can't breathe, killing me slowly. The nightmares.

_Sometimes I find myself shaking in the middle of the night, and then it hits me and I can't even believe this is my life_

But I gotta be strong for Sammy. I gotta get my body back in shape, start hunting again. Can't keep blowing up on him, can't keep letting my tears fall. I gotta pull myself together again.

_No one_ _bites back as hard on their anger, none of my pain and woe, can show through._

I just don't know how anymore. I don't even know who I am.

_I wanna paint my face and pretend that I am someone else, sometimes I get so fed up I don't even wanna look at myself_

It's so hard to keep my cool. Keep my temper in check. So hard after that year, everything's too hard. We don't fit together right anymore, our patterns are different. He's so lost, and I can't find him. I'm trying so hard. I don't know how to fix this.

_I wish you'd take a walk in my shoes for a start, I know people have problems that're worse than mine, I don't want you to think I'm complaining all the time_

Help me.

_When my fist clenches, crack it open, before I use it and lose my cool, if I swallow anything evil, put your finger down my throat and, if I shiver please give me a blanket, keep me warm, let me wear your coat_

I've been doing this on my own so long. I can't do it anymore. I can't keep going anymore, it just hurts too much. Please, let me rest. I've done enough, haven't I? I've given everything I've got and more, when does it end?

_I don't feel like I'm strong enough, I am slowly falling apart_

Everything hurts. I'm so raw. You can't understand. Don't try and pigeon hole me, you know better. Don't leave me.

_I don't feel right when you're gone away, because I'm broken when I'm lonesome_

I messed up dude, I messed up bad. And I'd do anything to fix it. But I don't need your pity. I don't want it!

_And I hate the way you look at me, I have to say_

I'm sorry for all the mistakes I made. I'd do anything to pull up even with you. Do anything to make things better. I'm so sorry. I did everything I could for you, but it wasn't enough. I'm sorry.

_I wish I could start over_

This weight on my shoulders, it's crushing me, and I'm sorry, but I can't stop it.

_I'm not strong enough to deal with it_

It hurts. I can't keep the tears in, and I'm sorry. I've tried so hard to be strong for you. To protect you. To be there for you, I've tried so hard to make up for Dad. And I just can't. I'm not good enough. You look at me like I'm some sort of…like I'm someone worth loving.

_I'm not angel but please don't think that I can't cry_

"_I want you to go to school, I want Dean to have a home." _

_I haven't ever really found a place that I call home, I never stick around quite long enough to make it, it's just a thought, only a thought_

I'm so lost. I don't know what's going on half the time. I can't, I keep messing up. Dad'd never forgive me.

_I apologize that once again I'm not enough_

I'd do anything for you. I don't get why you can't see that. I'd die for you. I'd do anything for you, I've tried so hard…tried so hard to save you.

_If you're cold I'll keep you warm_

It's my job to protect you.

'_cause I will be your safety_

If you could just see that I love you…

_Don't leave me_

Help me…

_I don't have time._

_The walls are down a little more each day since you came._

I don't know how to save you.

_I will be your safety._

_(So, the last bit there, those are songs in italics. There are like five of those all mixed in. So, credit to those artists. And it's supposed to be confusing. For those of you (the few) it starts out clear who's who, and then degenerates into a chaotic mix. If you've read "Beloved" this should read sort of like the "trio" in the middle section.(aka book two). Reviews to continue? seriously.)_


	13. Chapter 12: The Likes of You Again

_(sorry it's late. Thanks again to Merisha. Yay for having a Beta who goes "What the heck? that's wrong, I think." for you.) _

**Chapter 12: The Likes of You Again**

Sam groaned quietly as he woke up on Dean's bed, sprawled across the foot of it, one arm resting just below his brother's knee. The radio on the alarm had gone off, playing quietly _"here's to you, I sing from my daddy-o, as I lay him down to sleep ,it's been so long, since I lost my daddy-o, hope he's watching, over me." _Letting a bitter smile twist his lips, he was afraid to move in case it meant waking Dean up, but as soon as the drums and electric guitar kicked in, Sam knew the radio would wake Dean up. Trying to lift his gangly body from the bed without causing an abrupt change in the elevation of it, he slithered off onto the floor before turning off the radio, only to note one of his brother's bright green eyes watching him, eyebrow cocked in amusement. Sam just groaned, before flopping face first onto his own bed. Rolling to face Dean, he looked at his brother, considering, then smiled a little when Dean's eyelid drooped shut, the lines in his brow smoothing as he went back to sleep.

Getting up, he unlocked the door, having no concept of what time it was, or how long they'd been asleep. Hoping Bobby hadn't tried to come by, Sam checked his cell, pleased to see no missed calls. So, couldn't have been that long. All he remembered was being upset at his brother's words, and not managing to get any of his own in. At least, he wasn't sure. None of it quite fit or made any sense to Sam. But it had hurt. Hurt so bad he'd passed out. Unlike Dean, Sam was more willing to admit to things like that. But one thing was for sure, Sam didn't faint. He could pass out, get knocked out, be unconscious, but he sure as hell did not _faint_.

Sam went back to sleep.

When he woke up next, Bobby was sitting quietly in the chair by the corner of the room, somehow disapproving and yet relieved all at the same time.

--

I could kill these boys. Sam for locking me out, Dean for locking himself in. But that's what his daddy trained him to do, push everything away for the vengeance. It's over now, and it left 'em empty. Nothing left to fight, killing that yellow eyed sonuvabitch. Then they find out there's a war. I know they knew there was a lot of evil out there, but…it's never been called a war before.

Guess it's funny, but whether they like it or not, they're on a crusade. Save the world from the forces of evil and all that jazz. Dean'd be laughing. If he's still in there. You still with us, Dean? Come home boy, just come home already. When Dean pushes himself up from his bed, the covers sliding back from his shoulder, he looks like some sort of animal. Possibly a porcupine, with his hair sticking up in swatches all over the place. That's attractive. Eyes half shut, if I had a camera, I'd also have blackmail. When he turns his eyes on me, his lips twitch into a semblance of a smile before he flops back onto the bed tugging the pillow over his face. He mumbles something I don't catch, but Sam smiles. Then looks at me and the smile fades. Guess I look disapproving or something. Maybe I am. Damnfool thing to do. What if they'd needed me? At this point both of them are pretty self sufficient, and always have been, but it doesn't mean they should have to be. I want to be able to be there for these boys.

John left something behind, something good, and it's these two young men, and I'll be damned if I won't take care of them. 'Bout time someone in this world realized how important they are. Hell, the earth itself decided it wanted Dean back. Wish it coulda taken away his memories of hell. But that woulda been asking too much, I figure.

--

I look over at Bobby, feeling guilt fill me up to the point my face turns red with it. I was just so scared I was going to lose Dean again.

If I haven't already.

Watching him sleep, he starts to struggle, moaning softly. "Dean," I shake his shoulder lightly, his thin tee is plastered to him with sweat, his hair dark with it. "Dean, it's okay." I don't know what to do. Before I can even ask Bobby for help, Dean's awake and gasping. "Calm down, it's okay. We're here…" my voice trails off. "Dean?"

There're tears in his eyes, from the pain. Bobby pulls Dean into his arms before the sobbing even starts.

"Hurts…please, it hurts so bad…" his shoulders shake with the pain as his muscles spasm with the memory. Dean I'm sorry. I'm going to find a way to fix this, I promise. Make you forget, if I have to.

"Shhh, Dean, it's over. Alright son? It's over." Bobby you're wrong, I want to shout. I want to scream at him, tell him how it's not over! If it was over it wouldn't still be hurting my brother. He wouldn't wake up crying, Dean never cries. He's not afraid of anything, and he never cries, the mask never slips…the walls, they're always up keeping me out. But Bobby, the walls are gone, and there's so much rubble I can't even find him, I can finally see inside, and there's nothing there. He's trapped under it all, and I can't shift the rubble fast enough to find him…what if I can't get rid of it before he suffocates under it all?

Those walls Bobby, he built them up with everything that's ever hurt him, because whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger. So he keeps it between him and us, everything that's ever hurt him, he uses it –uses it to surround himself with all his mistakes, keeping him cold and hard…and hurting. And hell's brought it all down on his head. And I just don't know what to do anymore. I want to make it better. Dean, I'm gonna save you.

Dean pulls himself together pretty fast, pushing away from Bobby with the customary wince as he remembers the pain in his hands.

"Dude, you okay?" The glare he turns on me is like a knife through the heart, the tears still running down his cheeks.

--

"When the hell'm I ever gonna be okay again?" his voice chokes on the bitterness of his words.

When Bobby reached out a hand to touch his shoulder, Dean jerked away, hating the proximity of both his brother and the man he loved like a father. Too exhausted to run again, too scared that if he ran away this time, they wouldn't come after him. But all he wants to do is let Bobby comfort him, try and help Sam understand the pain that's eating away his heart. Tell them how he's terrified that maybe, maybe they don't lose their humanity in hell, it's after, once they've clawed out, trying to deal with reality again that they lose their humanity. Maybe he's becoming a demon, and there's nothing they can do to stop it. It's what Ruby said, wasn't it? But she remembered what it was like to be human, even if she'd lost the fundamental parts of her that gave her compassion and made her human. But how could he ever find the words to describe the excruciating pain? What would he tell them, even if he could explain it, would he try to brush it off and act like it wasn't as bad as it had been, or would he tell the truth? Tell them the way his father taught him to report, a military account. They could never understand.

Bobby can't find the words to heal Dean any more than he could find the words to help John. He had to watch his friend slowly become consumed by the flames of vengeance, the collateral being his sons, and his humanity. He became a weapon, a machine, turning his boys into his tools. It wasn't right, but it kept them alive, on the outside, killing them slowly on the inside. All Bobby wanted was to tell Dean that it could be okay, if he'd just believe he could be okay, they could work it out. Figure out the problem, solve it. Tell him that he loved him, and that he'd be okay. Because he had to be okay.

There are never words enough. No matter how many languages there are, how many words and variations and meanings, there are never enough.

Sam's dying inside along with his brother, unable to do anything to help, it kills him little by little, realizing that for once, he's found a monster he can't face, let alone kill. Memory. Knowing that it doesn't matter how much he loves Dean, how much he wants his big brother, his champion, his friend, Dean's never going to be that person again, even if he can pull himself together, he'll never be alright. No matter how many times he says 'jerk' and hears 'bitch' in reply, things won't be the same. When Dean laughs it won't be the same, if he ever laughs again, Sam'd do anything to see him smile. Not that forced patent I'm okay Dean Winchester smile, but that smile that sometimes he sees. When the walls are down, and Dean's happy. Like when they were little and Dean smiled at him, that proud older brother smile: a mix of possessiveness, pride, and unadulterated love. The smile that lights Dean's face up and hides all the suffering and hurt behind it. Just for once, giving everyone a glimpse at the man he is, and the man he could have been, if John would have just opened up enough to love him.

--

It hurts, still. I can't deal with this, I'm not strong enough. I was always so weak. Not strong enough for Dad, not strong enough to keep Sam alive. Not strong enough to pull myself together, to heal at all. It's still killing me. Dead things should stay dead. How many times have I thought that? I know it's true, it hurts so much, sometimes I wish…I wish just once, I could…only in dreams. Only in dreams…sometimes I see her. But, when we saw her last, she burned her soul for us. Mom's not watching over us Sammy, she's gone. I let Mom down, too, Sammy. I got her killed because I couldn't save you. I mean, I really got her killed. I let her soul end, Sam. If I had just been a better hunter just been faster, thought things out better, she'd still be watching over us. She should have been; she always looked like an angel, Sam. I could believe in angels, if they looked like her, she was so beautiful. She loved me…loved you, Sammy. Loved Dad so much, every time she looked at us, her eyes were so full of love. You can't remember, and I don't have enough words to tell you. But it's how Dad looked at you, sometimes. When you did something amazing, won all those academic awards and everything, it's that look. I'dve done anything to see Dad look at me like that, just once. Just to know he was proud of me, and loved me. The way Mom did, before she died. It's my fault Sam, her soul's gone, and I don't see how there can be any angels if she's not one of them.

There's nothing worth living for, what happened to Dad's soul, Sam? Did I destroy his, too? Being too weak to kill the Yellow Eyed Demon? Was I too slow to save him? I've killed our parents Sam, you never even got to know them. Sure, you knew John Winchester, hardass Demon Hunter, but you never knew my dad. And I let him die, Sam. I got hurt, because I was too weak, too stupid! Too stupid to see things, and then, what if I let his soul die? Sam? What if I killed him again? Just like Mom. I hate when you look at me like you love me, I don't deserve it. I'm the reason you don't have anyone to love you…just me. And I'm not much good, I let you die. I just…I just wanted Dad back so bad I wasn't paying attention, I just wanted to hear him say he was proud of me, just once. It took me too long to see he'd never say that to me. I was never good enough to deserve praise. Not like you. If I'd just been better, hadn't failed Dad and all the training, if I'd just been faster, I could have stopped it all. Saved Dad, and then you wouldn't have had to die.

I kill everyone I love.

What if I killed Dad twice, Sam? What if he burned himself out saving me from the Demon the way Mom burned herself out to save us? I miss her Sammy, I miss Dad, too. Just once…just once couldn't he have been proud of me? I tried so hard. I tried so hard and it was just never enough. I gave everything. I gave him my dreams in exchange for a gun, my hopes for his vengeance. I've given enough haven't I? Just enough that once, just once…He loved me, right? He did, he had to have. He's my dad. He's my family, you're supposed to love your family, love your children.

Did he only love me because he had to? I can't do this Sammy. I went to hell because Dad would be there, Sam. I wouldn't abandon him again, or let him go alone. You had Bobby. I couldn't fail Dad and you, I just couldn't. He told me to protect you, that's all I had to do. You were a good kid, now you're a good man. My job was easy Sam, that's why he let me take care of you. I failed Mom, too. I promised her I'd be a good big brother. I let you die! I'm so sorry. I just…I just want them back. Just for a minute, hell just a second. Just a second to feel her hand on my cheek again. See that love in her eyes. Just one more time. All I've got are the memories, and I don't know if they're real or not. What if they're not real? What if I'm just…the djinn, Sam, I can't keep it straight in my head. Her hug, the warmth, the way she smelled. The way she worried about me, like I ever needed anyone to worry about me. That's my job. To take care of everyone else. But, you shoulda seen it Sam. I wish you could have seen her. Even if it wasn't real. Just so you'd know. How much she loved you, and if Jess…if you and Jess ever got…you should've had a family. I failed you so badly Sam. If I'd done my job, you'd never have been a hunter, you'd have a normal life. You'd already be a lawyer, driving the other attorneys insane, wondering where you managed to store all that information. You were always an encyclopedia of weirdness. Even when you were little.

You remember? _Hey Dean, I did a report on frogs, and did you know that some of them are poisonous?_ Or sometimes you wanted to talk about presidents. Like did I know about Taft? Yeah, I knew, but I always said I didn't. It made you so happy to know things I didn't, to be able to tell me something for once, teach me something for once. Wish you coulda told Mom, though. So she could see how smart you were. Her and Dad were so happy to have you. I was an accident, did you know that? Well, sort of. They were talking about whether or not they wanted a baby, and Mom got pregnant. Kinda funny, huh? Looks like I've always been the screw up in the family. You, they wanted you. Had everything all planned. Wanted to know if I wanted a little brother or sister. Told them I wanted a brother, because I didn't like girls. Except Mom, because she was _my _mom. So she got to be special. But, I didn't like pink, or dolls, and I wanted someone to play with. I wanted someone who I wouldn't have to protect, but I could, because I was the big one, and it was just my job. I wanted a friend, a companion. Even before you were born I knew it would be my job to save you. Keep you safe. I failed. And I'm sorry. I'd do anything to go back and fix things. Make them right with you, make them right with Dad.

Prove to him he could love me. That I was…I wasn't his son, Sam, you always were. Stubborn, you stood up to him. Knew what you wanted. You were right, I was just his soldier, just his blunt weapon. His attack dog, just send me out and I'd do my job. I wasn't anything to him, Sam, I shoulda done things different. I was never good enough to be his son.

And I hate the way you look at me like I'm someone. You're just wasting your time, Sam. There's nothing here worth loving. And I'm sorry, 'cause I tried so hard to be someone you could look up to, someone who was worthy of your love, that trust you put in my hands Sam. I got you killed. And I killed Mom. Just like if I'd killed her with my own hands, I killed her. I might have well have killed Dad with my own hands, too. It was all my fault.

Dean sat there, silently on the bed, as the tears rolled down his cheeks and slowly stopped, leaving shining trails over his cheekbones. A single tear hugged his jaw, before beading and falling to the bed in a flash of scintillating light.

"No!" Sam shouted, his hand going over the damp circle on the bed, watching as each tear that fell seemed to take something from Dean, pulling away his soul, and Sam was forced to watch, unable to rouse his sibling as he reached out to him, trying to stop those emerald eyes from losing their spark and life as they faded into a dull empty green.

"Dean!" Sam shouted into his brother's face, shaking him slightly. "Dean no," he sobbed, pulling Dean into a hug.

"Sam," Bobby said quietly, who had been beside him, trying to keep him from losing it. "Sam, he'll be okay. He'll come back to us. He always does. C'mon Sam, let him go."

"I can't Bobby," he choked out, clutching Dean tighter. "I can't let him go; Dad did, and look at what happened. I left, I left him alone, and I won't do it again!" His sobs shook both his body and Dean's. Worried that Sam might hurt his brother, Bobby gripped his shoulder tightly.

"Sam, c'mon, just physically let go, okay? You're gonna crush him if you keep holding onto him like that. His body can't take it." Sam managed to relax his hold. Just barely. Bobby bit his lip with a sigh, so tired of the pain and the agony faced by these two young men. They didn't deserve it, and they clearly couldn't handle it. Sitting on the bed next to Sam, Bobby pulled him into a hug. "He'll be okay Sam, he will."

--

It's worse than before, because at least when we lost Dean, he was moving around, there was something there. Even if it wasn't our Dean, there was something. But he's just sitting there. Like a doll. Hands curled loosely in his lap, eyes dull. "It's okay Sam, we'll get him through this. Dean, he's a fighter, he'll pull through, you just gotta stay calm." You gotta keep fighting for yourself, Sam, because I won't lose you too, not to whatever's taking Dean away from us. Maybe I outta go out and buy as much alcohol as I can carry, get us all too drunk to think. I don't know if the hangover'll be worth it. I've got both boys' tears soaked into my shirt at this point. When Sam pulled away, I gripped his shoulder tight for a few seconds, making sure he met my eyes. "Sam? He'll be okay. It's Dean."

"That's the thing Bobby, he's never _been_ okay!" Sam snapped, rubbing at his eyes. "He just hid it better!"

--

Looking at Dean, I don't know what to do. It's not like Mom's picture is going to bring him back to me again. I figured that was a one time thing. It might be worth trying again, but he's not reacting the same at all. He's just pulled in on himself. Dean, I need you. Come on man, don't do this to me.

He didn't come back to us at all that night.

Or the next. Or the next, or the day after that. After a week, Bobby and I gave up; we couldn't take care of him when he was like that. It wasn't like we wanted to, but he was going to starve to death if we didn't rouse him. And we couldn't. We drove to Bobby's place, dumped as much of our stuff as we would, and took Dean to the nearest hospital. Told them we didn't know what happened, he'd been fine, then this… I was so tempted to go after that African dream root stuff again, get inside Dean's head.

"Sam, you can't do that!"

"Why not, Bobby!? He needs me!"

"Sam it's chaos in there! Why'd you think he shut himself down!? He can't handle it, and it'll damn well destroy you, too!"

"Dean's not gone Bobby! He's in there, what if he's calling out for me and I'm just sitting here on my ass watching!?"

"Sam, he was in hell. His mind remembers, and he can't take it, what makes you think you can? Sam you gotta stay strong for your brother for once, and you gotta let him work this out on his own. Come to terms with it. He might not ever recover, but Sam, asking him to cope with that, that's cruel."

"I don't want him to have to cope, I just want him to come back!" His body was right there. He just wasn't. "I just want him to know I'm here, and I'd do anything to help him, and instead he shuts down!"

"He's trying Sam!"

Sometimes he cried, the tears running down his cheeks as his eyes moved constantly under the lids. Other times his lips were moving, but there was never any sound. I didn't know how to help him, or what was even wrong. But, sometimes he was there. But he wouldn't wake up. And it never helped if I held him, or left him alone when he was upset like that. And other times he wasn't at all. Just still, lying there, covered in sweat. Sometimes he shivered and his muscles would spasm, but, he never woke up. Never opened his eyes. It hurt too much to watch, so sometimes I just sat there, eyes closed, before realizing if I closed them, I was shutting out the world, same as Dean, and I had to face it. I had to face it so that he could, too. I just wanted him to wake up.

_I sat there, in class, tapping the pencil on my desk. The eraser making a steady tap-tap on the fake wood. We're supposed to be writing an essay about the Cold War. Like any of it matters anymore. Like any of it ever mattered. Not with what's really out there. That's all that mattered to me, what was really there. What the real threat was. Not some old war where nothing happened, it was what was killing people now. A demon that took my mom, and what killed other people's moms and dads and brothers and sisters. We weren't fast enough on the last hunt. I wasn't fast enough. Dad told me, he told me what to do, and I failed him, I messed up. When I got to their house, it was too late. The… the little girl, she was…splayed out across the room. Her body strewn…all over the floor. The first thing I did was puke, I couldn't stop myself. She must have been about five. I remembered Sam at that age, his huge brown eyes always looking up to mine, seeking reassurance, especially when Dad was late. Always trusting me. For a moment, it's hard to keep my brother separate from the little girl, her messy dark brown hair curling across her face…where it wasn't matted with her blood. Her eyes wide and staring, mouth open in shock. Pain. I crouched down to close her eyes, moving up and away after, to puke again. Dry heaving, I hadn't eaten again. Sometimes I forgot to eat. School lunch may have been free, but as one of my teachers liked to say, it had to be identifiable first. It never was. I liked when they had the giant pretzels. Not the government cheese though, or whatever it was. But, I was starving up until a few minutes ago. I'm so sorry. Dad, I failed the family, too. I walked further into the house, trying to find the demon that did this to them. I could kill it, at least. Dad was home, laid up 'cause he went and did something to his back. My hands slipped on the gun, as my whole body slowly got slick with sweat. I was so scared. It was one of my first solo hunts, I wasn't used to it. And even when I went on hunts alone, I knew I would have Dad for back up. But, this was my job. And I'd already screwed the whole thing to hell. There was no one left to save. When I got back, what would Dad say? He'd yell. And it's not as if I can lie to him. I've never been able to. Not the way I can tell Sam it's all gonna be okay. I found it. _

_After it threw me through a wall. My head spinning, I tried to get up to fight it. Fired off a few rounds into it, just like Dad said, my head spinning and I dry heaved again, my body hurt so bad. I was winded, gasping for air and nothing was happening. But I managed to wound it all the same. Panic. I remember my heart thundering in my chest, but it was nothing compared to the fear I felt about how I would tell Dad I'd screwed up. Like I always did. Grades, girls, everything, I messed up all the time. I wasn't supposed to date or get attached. But, there was Tracey. She was always really nice to me. Not like a lot of other girls, who just flirted, Tracey was just nice. She didn't want anything from me, other than the occasional shoulder to cry on. God I loved her. We had to move on soon, before she just turned into collateral, like everyone else I loved. Like everyone else I was supposed to save. I let Sam die. Killed Dad. I killed that sonuvabitch, and went home. I could barely drive. It flung me around good. Dislocated my shoulder. I remember going to school the next day looking like crap. Tracey was so worried, wanted to know if my Dad did it to me, 'cause she'd seen him once. _

_He came to pick me up early from school, me and Sam. I didn't want to go, I don't remember why, but he grabbed my arm and jerked me so hard I fell. She saw, and when I came to school with my arm in a sling. I guess it was in my face. I let Dad down. _

"_Dad?"_

"_Dean? You okay?!" It was Sam, not Dad. Dad never cared. We got banged up, so what? You healed and you kept going. _

"_Yeah, Sam, I'm okay." I heard my voice crack, I was just fine. _

"_Dean what's wrong with your arm?" Dad asked. That he cared about. If I'd broken it, then I was useless until it healed. _

"_Just dislocated, no big," I told him. He came over to me, and I braced myself. "Dad, I gotta…gotta tell you something." Maybe I should have waited, waited until after he put my shoulder back into its socket. But no, I couldn't do that. Sometimes I think he made it hurt worse just because he was angry._

"_Tell me what Dean?" _

"_I was too late." _

"_What?" his voice went so cold. I hated myself in that second, I would have gladly put the gun to my own head just to escape that single word. Please, don't talk to me like that. I tried, I tried so hard, but I was too late. "Excuse me?" he asked. I wanted to scream, beg him. Instead, I just threw back my good shoulder and held my head up, refusing to meet his eyes, but I wasn't going to hide. I couldn't, if I wanted to._

"_I…they were already dead. I tried…" then he popped my shoulder back in, and I screamed. I couldn't stop myself. _

"_Shut up!" he snapped, grabbing the lower half of my face, covering my mouth. It didn't hurt, he wasn't hurting me. Sam was sitting white faced on the bed. Still in middle school, so young. When the pain subsided, I nodded, and Dad let go. "I sent you out there with plenty of time to get this thing Dean." _

"_Dad, I'm sure he would've, but something happened, Dean's a good hunter, and-" I saw that look in Sam's eyes. The way his eyes flashed and his head came up, jaw jutting out, shoulders back. He was ready to attack Dad for me. _

"_Sam, shouldn't you be in bed?" I had to protect him, keep Dad's anger on me, and away from Sam. He was too little to handle it. It's okay Sam, I'm okay. I'll always be okay. I'm always fine, right? Go, just go. My shoulder hurt so bad. My nose was a bloody mess, split on my eyebrow that'd run into my eye and down my cheek. Lips were split. Upper lip on the left, lower nearer to the right. When I saw myself in the mirror I had a bruise raising up on my cheek, along my jaw, looked like I'd been choked…I was so screwed. And my arm, no way was I gonna be able to hide that. We were supposed to be climbing the rope in gym the next day. How was I gonna get up it? _

"_Dean, what happened? I told you when to get there, I told you when it would happen!" Yeah Dad, well guess what? You were wrong, I got there on time. But what'm I supposed to say? You'll never believe the truth. Besides all that matters is that I failed, not that I followed orders. We're soldiers, you fail, you face hell for it. _

"_I was too late." I feel my throat tighten, and I don't know what to say, I just know I can't let my eyes water. Blinking rapidly, I look down, hoping Dad won't notice. _

"_What the hell, Dean?!" _

"_Sir, I tried." _

"_Trying isn't good enough, Dean! Goddamn it Dean! All you had to do was follow orders!" I couldn't stop myself._

"_I did! I was there the time you told me, I was there, and that little girl was already dead, her mom and dad too! And y'know what?! I only found pieces of 'em!" I couldn't stop myself from yelling. But the look in his eyes scared me. He doesn't look angry all of a sudden, it's almost compassion. _

"_Here, Dean, take some Tylenol and go to bed, okay?" _

"_Y-yessir," I mumbled so confused. I did exactly what he said and crawled into bed. _

"_Dean?" we were always in the same room. Always. Back while I was still in grade school, we got lumped into the same bed. Sam kicks. And rolls over a lot, so I'd have to edge toward the other side of the bed, and I usually woke up, or fell off the bed, only to get up, crawl in on the other side, and find myself forced off the bed again. Or else he managed to sprawl out horizontal, so I ended up spending my nights on the floor. Back when I'd been really little, Sam was just starting to sleep in a normal bed, when Sam knocked me off, I'd just go crawl into bed with Dad. Then I turned seven or so, I guess, 'cause Sam would have been about three, and I stopped. I don't really know why. Guess I was just too big. A whole year past being six, all into second grade. Yeah. _

"_Yeah Sam?" I mumbled to him, changing into the sweats I slept in. _

"_You okay?" _

_I started to tell him my arm hurt, but I changed it into a quick "I'm fine, dude, lemme sleep." I forgot to even wash the blood of my face, and I was out. The alarm went off, and I wanted to die. Showered like usual, caught the bus, and waited in the hallway for first period to start, along with Tracey. _

"_Dean, what happened to your face?"_

"_Oh…I fell." _

"_Your arm's in a sling." _

"_I slid on the stairs, wrenched my arm, and smacked my face into the wall. It was great, you shoulda seen it. Once Sam figured I was okay, he started laughing, said it looked like something he coulda made a million bucks offa if he'd just had a camera." _

"_It looks like it hurt." Sometimes I hated how she did things like that. Leave me alone. _

"_Well my Dad's not worried, so I'm not." _

"_He do this to you?"_

"_What? My dad? He's never hit me or Sam!" He wouldn't do that. We got slapped around enough by evil spirits making us their bitch. _

"_Dean, I saw you that once." _

"_Yeah, all he did was grab me, he wouldn't do this, trust me. Our dad loves us. He wouldn't ever hurt us." Just me, and not on the outside, he'd never just smack me around. That'd be easier for me. No, I just know I keep messing up. I don't measure up to his standards, and that hurts so much more. _

_A few weeks later, Dad told us we were leaving. I wasn't ready to leave. Not yet. I remember sitting by Tracey at lunch. _

"_Dean, you okay?"_

"_I'm always okay," I grinned. I loved the way she'd smile at me, even when she knew I was lying through my teeth. I just loved her smile. No one'd ever smiled at me like that before. Not ever. I still don't know what it was in her eyes when she looked at me. _

"_Yeah?" she lightly poked my side. I'm not ticklish, and never have been, so I just glared at her. "You don't always act okay." _

"_I'm never not," I commented, refusing to be drawn into her conversation the way she wanted. _

"_Here, you want some orange?" I didn't, but…_

"_Sure." It was juicy, but it was never as good as orange juice. But it was better than nothing. "Thanks." I mumbled to her, swallowing the fruit down. _

"_You need to eat more."_

"_I eat all the time! Just 'cause I don't like eating at school doesn't mean I don't eat."_

"_Your brother eats here." _

"_Well he doesn't mind the unidentifiable food." It's probably where he gets his mutant brain powers of knowing friggin' everything. Radiation or something. _

"_He brings his own lunch, you could, too. It would be okay. Your fangirls wouldn't love you any less if you did." I rolled my eyes. Half the girls in the school made eyes at me. Some of them were hot. But, I knew what Dad'd say if I ever wanted to date. Hell, I'd never even let myself deliberately kiss a girl, just in case Dad found out and tore me a new one. But plenty of girls had kissed me. Kissing back didn't hurt, did it? Somehow I kept finding myself closer and closer to Tracey, before I finally let my head tilt so I could lean in and kiss her. The first kiss I'd ever initiated. And liked the girl. Her hand moving up to the back of my neck, my hand on her cheek, keeping her lips against mine. The taste of her. Citrus. The way she smelled like Vanilla. Then the bell rang, and we sprang apart, blushing. We skipped town that night, and I never saw her again. Just like any other girl I'd ever crushed on. I just hope she didn't hate me for it; I've messed up so many things. And I don't want that look in her eyes to change. Don't want it to have been a lie, or for her to think I tricked her. She was so nice to me. We were only there a few months. Just long enough that I wanted to stay. _

"_Dean, take your brother and run! Now go!"_

"_Sam, what're you doing?"_

"_Packing."_

"_Sam?" My voice cracked. _

"_Please Dean. Just go back to bed. I got a full ride, and I'm going. I can't do this anymore, okay? I love you, okay? So don't think I'm leaving because of you or anything. I just have to do this Dean, and I'm sorry." I mutely walked over, and started pulling his clothes out of his drawers, helping him put them into his duffel bag. _

"_Sam, you can't take all your hunting gear. Dad and I'll need it, and you won't need it at Stanford. What if they catch you with it?" I asked, trying to keep from crying. But, I couldn't stop him. Couldn't call Dad in so that the two of them could fight and Sam would just leave on bad terms. The hunt hadn't gone well this week. I got hurt bad, Sam freaked out, yelling at Dad for not being good enough back up for me, letting it happen. I was too out of it to do anything. In fact, I'd been sleeping a lot of it off, trying to deal, and woke up to find Sam leaving. _

"_I guess I won't need this," he said, pulling a piece of paper up from the nightstand and crumpling it into his pocket. When I look at him, confused, he sighed a little. "Dean, I was just leaving a good-bye note. You were sick, and I wanted to stay until you got better, but, Orientation…and a whole bunch of other things." I'll never know what the note said, but I have a feeling it would have been something I could have held onto, remembering that Sam did love me. At one point, he'd been proud to be my brother. He shoulda left it anyway. "You shouldn't be up and around, Dean!" He said, when I started to sway a little. _

"_No, I'm helping you. You should tell Dad."_

"_Why, so he can yell at me?" _

"_So he won't yell at me." I shouldn't have said that, and Sam looked at me. I saw the tears in his eyes that time, the guilt. Probably the only time he felt guilty for leaving us. For leaving me behind. Take me with you Sammy, I wanted to beg, please. But he had to go. Had to go be Sam. And it's always been my job to protect him, and I had to save him from Dad, and save him from himself. So, I pressed all the cash I had into his hands it was fight to get him to take the cash, but I told him he had to get there somehow. Needed to eat, too, and walked him to the bus stop, I would have given him the Impala, I offered. It would have killed me, but he said no. Said he'd rather walk._

"_Dean, come with me."_

"_What? Sam I can't."_

"_No, come with me!"_

"_And do what?"_

"_You could take some classes or something, at the college." _

"_Sam you gotta get in, first." How do I tell him that I'd been accepted to all the colleges I'd applied to, just to shut my guidance counselor up. Cornell, Stanford, Harvard the local community ones. And it wasn't my grades, it was the SAT's and the ACT's. And the essay I had to write, I guess. I coulda gone. I mean, I can't ever, I never could have._

"_You could take some classes, not as a full time student, Dean. Hell, you could start your own car repair business, yeah? I'm sure the students would need car maintenance, and you could make a killing off all the rich kids. Or you could find a shop and get a job there." _

"_Yeah, Dean the mechanic."_

"_You could live a real life, Dean. You could have cards with your own name on them, wouldn't have to lie to everyone. And hell, the parties are supposed to rock in college, right? Hey," Sam grinned, "You could be campus security or something. Or Ace Detective," he joked. I tried to smile, but all I felt was alone. Don't leave me, please, I wanted to beg.  
"Sam, I can't go with you. Who would take care of Dad?" _

"_Dad can take care of Dad. He always used to ditch us when we were little anyway. What's the difference now?"_

"_Sam, I can't." Convince me, please. Take me with you. I can't go. I can never do anything. I don't have a choice. I just do what Dad says, Sam, and this time, this time I'm gonna get screwed but…it's for you, and I'd do anything for you. It's my job. _

_Then the bus pulled up, and I could barely hold back the tears, or the sobs. My throat hurt so bad from keeping it in. "Dean…Thanks, man."_

_And that was it. He was on the bus, the doors closing behind him. He waved to me, like it was just some trip he'd be back from. I waved back, and I couldn't stop until they were completely out of sight, and even then, I almost couldn't stop. And I went back._

_So, I walked him to that bus stop, and I watched him go, I shoulda hugged him. Just so when I tried to remember what it was like to have my brother at my side, I could have remembered what it was like to feel safe and loved, too. Even if just for a few moments. I just let him go, and barely made it back to the place Dad was renting. Just barely. When I woke up in the morning, it was Dad yelling and screaming. Worried, wondering where the hell Sam was. I stood up, groggy, before staggering into the living room, my body shaking._

"_Dean! Where the hell's Sam?! You boys were in the same room, where'd he go!?"_

"_Stanford." I couldn't lie to Dad. Couldn't act like I didn't know what was going on._

"_Excuse me, Dean?" _

"_He went to Stanford, sir." _

"_You didn't bother to tell me?! Tell me your brother was leaving! Dean we need him!" 'Especially with you hurt' right Dad? That's the part you left unspoken, but I could still hear it in your voice. I was always a disappointment to you. I never wanted to be. I gave you everything I ever had, all my hopes, all my dreams. Gun for your dreams? Penny for your thoughts? And I'd taken the deal. Just like I'd traded my soul for Sam's. It was all I had, and I'd thought maybe just once it would be enough. And my soul was enough to save Sam. But my future, that was never enough for you, Dad. _

"_I just did what you always told me to do." Stars exploded across my vision, it was the only other time Dad had ever laid a hand on me. I reeled back, crashing into the wall behind me, blinking to clear my vision, feeling the blood run over my lip. _

"_I never told you to let your brother run off alone!"_

"_You said to protect him. So I did." I rubbed the blood off my chin, looking at it idly. Then he realized he'd hit me._

"_Dean, I'm sorry." He said, coming closer, trying to get a hand under my chin to look at the damage. I was still so sick. I'd gotten ill from complications with the damage done by the creature we'd been after. Real bad infection that had turned into a nasty illness once the infection broke. Not to mention I'd been slightly concussed. Dad hitting me hadn't helped. I pulled my face away, for once defying him a little. For Sam. I'd never do it again, never had the balls to stand up to Dad. Kept hoping that just once he'd look at me like he was proud I was his son. _

"_It's fine," I muttered, slipping away from him to go crawl back into bed, twitching the curtains shut first, hoping the light wouldn't wake me. _

_Goodbye Sammy. _

"_He said if I can't save you, that I might have to kill you." _

"_By the way, I saw your dad there. He says howdy. All that I had to hold onto is that I would climb out one day and that I was gonna torture you, nice and slow, like pulling the wings off an insect. But whatever I do to you, it's nothing compared to what you do to yourself, is it?"_

"_Dad?"_

"_Dean I told you to get out!" _

"_No, Dad!"_

"_You get out of here, or I swear to god, Dean…"_

"_What? You'll kill me? You need my help!"_

"_Go watch over your brother!"_

"_You need my help!"_

"_So you can do what, Dean? Mess up? Get in my way? This is my hunt, you go take care of Sam. It shouldn't be too hard for you." _

"_Yes sir." _

"_I take it back, it was too hard for you, wasn't it. Some burden too heavy for you to carry. Nice job Dean, you were too late again, and this time it cost this family your brother!" _

"_I tried!"_

"_Like you tried to save that family? Dean, you couldn't even save yourself, how did you ever think you could save Sam?"_

"_Dad, I'm sorry! I tried so hard, I just wanted to be a good son." _

"_So you just let your brother die?" _

"_NO! I tried to save him!" _

"_You were just too late, like always. Too late to save your mother, too late to save me, too late to save Sam, too stupid to save yourself. Tell me Dean, who's next to die?"_

"_No one!"_

"_Bobby? Sam again? You" _

"_No! I won't let anyone else die!"_

--

_Time to wake up sweetie._

--

Sam took another sip of coffee, before the cup was empty. Staring at it, he got up, and crumpled the paper into his fist, using the back of his hand to rub at his eyes, before lobbing the cup into the trash. "Three points," he mumbled. Glancing at his brother, he decided he needed more coffee, and that since it had already been a few months, not much was going to change. Leaving the room, he barely noted the nurse walking in. The most Dean had done was go into cold sweats, shaking and tossing. But, he never woke up, and never responded to anything.

Day One:

Something's wet on my legs. Warm, at least. And moving up. Okay, too high. If it's Sam, he dies, if it's Bobby, I'm never forgiving him. I can clean myself. Forcing one eye open, I see a face. Not Sam, or Bobby. A woman. I know her. Can't move…feel kinda weird.

"Tracey?" I barely choke out the word. What, what the hell? Don't feel so good.

"Yeah, how'd you –Dean?!" Oh, god…I'm not wearing anything, am I? Again? This gets old fast. Hurts. Should probably just go back to sleep.

"Dean, stay with me, okay?" No, how about not? I let my eyes droop closed, I've had enough. I'm tired. And I can't get away from the memories. She shakes my shoulder, _get off_. Pulling away, I just wanna sleep some more. It can't have been that long. Wait.

"Tracey?"

"Open your eyes, c'mon Dean, look at me." Fine, fine I'll look. Happy now? I train my eyes on her, as she un-blurs and comes into focus. Where's Sam and Bobby? Did something happen to them? Panic runs through me, and I feel the adrenaline thread through my veins. Wait…Gotta keep talking. Always gotta keep talking. C'mon Dean.

"Where am I?"

"You've been in the hospital for the past two months."

"What?!" I just went to sleep, I'm still so tired…no way. This isn't funny. At all.

"Dean, you slipped into a coma." No, this isn't funny. I wouldn't, I can't have. No, I didn't do that. I wouldn't leave Sammy like that, I promised to protect him. Two months? I try pushing myself up into a sitting position, my body protests, screaming at me. Everything feels funny, like I slept on my arms and legs funny. Or like I don't remember how to move my body. I don't manage it at all. Move, go…move body, c'mon. I'm drifting out already again. So friggin' tired. I'm gonna wake up, and this'll all be a really annoying dream.

"Where's Sam? Where's Bobby?"

"Your brother and your uncle? Sam just walked out. He comes in the room the moment visiting hours start, and fights for every extra minute he can get when they end. And Bobby? He's in here a lot, too. Reading a lot."

"I need Sam." If it's true, I owe him big, I'm so sorry. Gotta stay awake.

"Okay, I'll get him for you, he'll still be in the hospital, so calm down." She looks right at me. "Stay calm, okay? And stay put!"

Day Two:

No, no, no, no, what happened!? I was awake! It's dark now, what's going on?! Is this someone's idea of a sick joke!? I was in a coma for two months? That's not normal, didn't Dad always say it was 4-5 weeks if the person was going to recover. Damnit! And the moving isn't working. I'm awake, Sam!? Sam come back! Godamnit! Still so friggin' tired. Can't really handle all this right now. Tomorrow. Sam's here every day, right? He'll be here. I'll be okay then.

Day Three:

Pulling the blankets up over my body, I see some fresh clothes, I start to tug them on, mindful of the various tubes running in and out of my body. IV, and some other things, one in my lower stomach, it looks like, I'm not sure. Maybe closer to my pelvis than my stomach per say. Not important. Although I'm not sure how to take it out. Wonder if it's the same as an IV? My hands are too shaky to risk it, though. Guess I was breathing on my own, because the only thing on my face is an annoying oxygen mask that's pretty easy to get off. Okay, I'll stay put. Two months? I've been out for two friggin' months? God, Sam. He…he should have been hunting, not sitting around hoping I'd wake up. All those people…

_Who's next to die? _

Innocents. That's who. And it's all my fault all over again. Closing my eyes, it doesn't help protect me from the pain. I'm so tired all of a sudden. It'd be easier to just go to sleep.

Day Four:

Sun's up. Okay. Different day or same one? I can't tell. Everything's shot to hell. Pretty sure it's been four days. Just feels right to me. Four days. Gotta have been. Something internal, dunno. It's weird, but I still don't feel like it's been two months. Sam's coat's on the chair. He's here, somewhere, then. Sam, I'm up. I dunno for how long, but I'm up. I've been trying to move each time I wake up, gets a little easier. Could use you right now man. C'mon.

Sam comes bursting in, "Dean!" Perfect timing. For once, the Winchester luck's taking a vacation. Hope it stays there a long time.

"Yeah, it's my name, don't wear it out, okay?" I tell him, unsure how to react. Still can't talk so well, I sound half drunk. My body's so stiff. Sam pulls me into a hug, half sobbing. "Dude, I'm sorry." Really, I am. Two months? I abandoned my family…just like Dad. No word, nothing. I'm so sorry Sam. I hug him back, surprised when nothing tugs on my back, and my fingers aren't splinted. They work fine. Of course, I've had time to heal. Didn't notice before. Damn.

"I could slug you," Sam mutters into my shoulder, he's hugging me so hard it hurts. But I can't complain, I deserve it after all. "The nurse is calling Bobby. Or intern, whatever the hell she is." I'm so confused and disoriented, and it takes a while to understand what he's talking about. He knows I'm up, guess the nurse was at the doorway or something. Not doing so well. Or maybe they weren't sure I was waking up and didn't want to give Bobby hope. I don't know. As long as it works out and I don't have to think about it. Oh, the nurse. Or whatever. Not a nurse, don't think she was a nurse. Maybe. They all wear scrubs. Tracey.

"Old classmate," I tell Sam quietly. My words are slurred, but I can live with that. It'll get better, I hope.

"What?"

"You remember, I'd walk to pick you up from middle school, and this girl usually came with me?"

"That's her?!" He sounds so surprised, both eyebrows disappearing behind the fringe of his bangs. I chuckle a little.

"Yeah. And now I have no dignity." Sam chuckles this time, wiping tears off his cheeks. "Seriously, I kissed her first, then we were gone the next day, and next time she sees me, I'm in a coma…and undressed." Sam starts laughing harder. I think he just needs to laugh, because it's not really that funny. Not to me, at least. Then I grin at Sam, raising my own eyebrows and licking at my lips to moisten them before asking "Think she'll sleep with me?"

"God you're an ass!" he says lightly punching my shoulder. It doesn't hurt. My skin's not raw, not sore. Hate to say it, but it's the best I've been feeling since I came back.

"Dude, I gotta get up and move around."

"Go ahead and try." Sam tells me, shaking his head.

"Hey, I sat myself up!" Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I feel so much better. "I'm hungry," I whine, just to see Sam quirk a smile. Grinning at him, I duck my head so he won't see the tears in my eyes. I'm sorry Sammy. Standing up, I sway and windmill my arms slightly, before Sam's up on his feet steadying me, laughing again. I punch him this time.

"Dude, I'm sorry," he wheezes, "You just, you shoulda seen your face. You were so confident, and then…" he dissolves into helpless laughter again. Leaning on him, I can't help but laugh, too. I've seen him when he's sick, trying to get up and walk in a straight line. I've also seen him drunk and in a good mood once or twice. So much better than when he's being mopey. And funnier. Although, he was gone by the time it was legal for him to be drinking. Unfortunately. Because Dad and I coulda used some laughs at the bar. Sam wraps his arms tightly around me. "Don't you ever do that to me again," he whispers, and I don't think I was supposed to hear it.

"I won't."

Sam chooses to ignore me. It's a place we can't go yet. "Dude, you're gonna have to put up with so much physical therapy." He chuckles a little, so I half think he's kidding.

"Why?"

"You never figured that walking thing out. Or so much the eating. Maybe in the hospital they can help with that." I'm okay Sam, I'll learn on my own, okay? I don't need some therapist to get my legs to walk right. Flexing my fingers, I remember some of the exercises Dad made us do. I got to the point I could move each knuckle independently of the others. I could keep my finger straight except the last knuckle, bending that one, or only the middle one, any finger any hand. Don't think I can do that now. Then again they're so stiff! Kind of hurts a little to bend them. Running my fingers through the exercises, it wears me out a little. Which is humiliating, I realize I've been ignoring Sam.

"No, I think I'll be fine." There, that's a good answer, isn't it? Where's Bobby? I thought he was coming. Working my hands again, I shake out my wrists. Lightly flicking my fingers to shake them out, I look up at Sam. "Dude, I feel fine. I mean, it's the best I've felt…since ever almost." He frowns at me. "No, hear me out." I take a breath, trying to organize my thoughts as they slip through my fingers like water. "We've been hunting so long, you get all these aches and pains from it, places you never healed…that's all gone. I mean, my collar bone," my hand trails up, fingertips lightly smoothing over my skin. "You remember how much that hurt? Never had a chance to let it heal all the way, 'cause Dad needed me on a hunt. Remember how it healed wrong, and it used to ache real bad all the time? It's gone, Sam. The shoulder I kept dislocating, it's fine." It used to hurt so bad. "All those times I pulled a muscle, sprained my ankle…" the left one was shot to hell before all this. Sometimes if I walked on it wrong it would ache for days. Just because I'd damaged it so often. "Sam, it's great. I mean, it sucks, but it's great. Like I've got a whole new body," I smile a little.

"Yeah," he nods a little. "I didn't see any of the scars I'm used to seeing."

"Like that one on my ass?"

"What?!" I burst out laughing I can't help it. "No, seriously, what?!" I shake my head, helpless to respond to anything he's saying. I don't have a scar that I know of there, although I've been smashed into glass, through wood, I wouldn't be surprised particularly.

--

I can see Dean visibly fading. When he's gasping for air after laughing so hard, I decide he won't fight me if I suggest some things. Not to mention I was laughing, too. It was just, so good to see him laugh. I don't think I've seen him really smile or anything in so long. But he was laughing about the stupidest…

"God you're a jerk."

"Bitch," he says between gasps.

"Dude, do me a favor and lie down before you hurt yourself."

"Sam, you don't get it, I'm doing great!"

"Dean, you're exhausted and you can barely keep your eyes open."

"But Bobby…" oh. That's why.

"Here, I'll wake you up when he gets here, okay?"

"No you won't," he's right, I won't. He needs the rest.

"Yeah, so what if I don't Dean!? You think it's easy for me to watch you sleep anymore?! Never knowing if you're gonna wake up or not?!" I can't stop my voice from rising, and I'm sorry when I see the expression on his face. But maybe it's something he needs to hear. "I've been busting my ass trying to find a way to wake you up, a way to save you. Wanna know why? 'Cause if you're gone, there's nothing like you on this planet Dean! We'll never see the likes of you again, if you keep being an asshole instead of trying to let yourself heal! I was all set to go in after you, pull you out of wherever you'd locked yourself, because maybe if you'd just let me help you, things wouldn't be so damn difficult for you!" I'm panting in anger, and I just want to hit him, make him understand he has to take care of himself, because I can't do it for him. I can't make sure he eats, sleeps, wakes up, remembers me, shares whatever's bothering him so he can function. I can't do it all, I can try, but it doesn't mean it's going to work, And he'll just resent me for trying to play Dad to him. And that's not right. I'm his brother, and I can take care of him, but that doesn't mean I should be his caretaker any more than he was supposed to be mine. That never should have happened to us. We grated on each other's nerves enough as it was.

And it killed Dean little by little, trying to be Dad and Mom to me. He raised me Dad can't take credit for that. I didn't fight with Dean the way I did him, Dean's the one who fed me, gave me his jacket when I got cold, gave up anything and everything he'd ever wanted for me, for Dad. That wasn't right. I'm just lucky he doesn't resent me and hate me the way he could. The way he does Dad in his sleep, yelling and calling out, defying Dad. Too bad he couldn't bring himself to do it when Dad was around. But it wasn't ever so bad until Dad traded his soul for Dean, the way he'd beg Dad to take it back, un-do it, change things. Dead things should stay dead, he'd say it in his sleep, over and over. I used to be terrified he was going to kill himself. I'd stay up and watch him toss and turn and rave in his sleep, hoping that he'd be okay, because I was too scared to wake him up, afraid the demons of his sleeping world would come to haunt our daytime. And I couldn't let those demons loose on the world. If Dean couldn't handle them on his own, nothing ever could. And I just, I couldn't let it happen, and yet I couldn't let it go, and it haunted me.

"Yeah, okay Sam, anything you say, okay dude?" No, Dean, not anything I say, just be smart! Just take care of yourself! You're worth something, okay? You always have been. What the hell happened to you that you can't attach any value to yourself? What'd Dad say to you that you have such a low opinion of yourself Dean, because it's not true. Worse yet, what'd I do? Could I have done something to make it better, Dean? I looked up to you, I just wanted to be just like you, proud, fast, strong, you were so perfect, and I was terrified I'd never be as good as you. And so I fought Dad, tried to make up for my failings, tried to make up by having a back up plan. If I couldn't be as good a hunter as you, maybe I could be a good lawyer, a good normal kid. Because I just wanted to be you. You were so cool to me, sawed-off in hand, collar popped on your jacket, cocky smile on your face as you did your "I'll be back" impersonation. Left me alone, to go hunt with Dad, the roar of the Impala defiant against the night. I'd have done anything to be just like you.

What'd Dad say to you, that you can't see how important you are?

_(mm. Reviews to continue? please?) _


	14. Chapter 13: Can't Find My Way Home

_(Just so you all know, this chapter was not included in the original 17 chapters. One of you requested it, I don't know/care who, and the girl I write this for pointed out it was weird I brought Tracey up and did nothing with her. Frankly, I didn't care that much one way or the other...but it was for her, so... Also, I just said goodbye to one of the people in my life I never really thought about having to say goodbye to. And I can honestly say I've just about lost everyone I've ever really loved, and it sucks to realise how much I loved one of my teachers. And how much it hurts to know that I won't have that person to ask advice of and just talk to. And...yeah. So, as per usual, if you want to see more of this, you have to review. Dead serious. Um, my Granny's in town for my graduation, so...sorry this update is late, the next one probably will be too. Oh, also, any mistakes... Merisha said I didn't have any, so blame her, not me, lol. J/k. She's a great beta, and a girl couldn't ask for more from anyone. As far as beta's who live on a diff. continent go, LOL. Sorry. I'm done.) _

**Chapter 13: Can't Find My Way Home **

Waking up again, something's hurting my arm. "nnh?" Turning my head, it's Tracey. Shots. Why the hell? Is this revenge because I left the day after we kissed? "Tracey…"

"Hey Dean. Long time no see."

"Yeah, Dad…we had to move again."

"I figured," she says, lightly touching my cheek.

"You're married now?" What?

"Four years now," she smiles. I smile back. Good to know she's had a life. Guess she's not mad at me or anything. Hope she never was. I'm sorry.

"Don't have any kids do you?" She laughs a little.

"You almost sound worried," she teases, "No, not yet. We're waiting a little longer." It's dangerous to have kids later, isn't it? I want to ask, but she's the one who works in a hospital. Can't tell what she's doing though. I don't think she's a nurse. "How're you feeling?" it's the question a friend asks, not a doctor.

"I'm doing okay, I think." Considering I don't know what drugs are floating around in my system.

"So what've you been up to?" she asks, helping me when I work on sitting up.

"Oh, y'know." I sucked at lying to her, how the hell am I gonna pull it off now?

"Your charts say you're a veteran. You never struck me as the military type."

"My dad was a marine, how did I not strike you as the military type?"

"You had potential to do something else with your life." I grin, oh honey if only you knew. But I can't play that game.

"So what? People who go into the military are just losers, that what you're telling me? My dad was a loser, and I am too?" She gives me that look, I remember that one, it's the same one she gave me when I told her my dad would never hurt me. It seems to say 'oh, please' and I continue to glare. I can't do it, Sammy, can't find my liars place anymore. Think I left it behind in hell.

"You remember Mrs. Rosenberg?

"Yeah."

"She died the year after you left. Stroke. Y'know, she missed you."

"I hated her," I say, surprised.

"I think that's why. You always challenged everything that came out of her mouth, and you made her think. The rest of us? We just believed her like sheep because she was the teacher."

"You were never a sheep," I say with enough force that it surprises me. It's funny, we don't really have anything to say to each other, and the things we want to, we're too scared to. C'mon Dean, be the brave one. I'm sick of being brave. She smiles at me. It's like we're still friends, not complete strangers. She looks how I remember her. Exactly the same, just her hair's cut different. God she's beautiful. I'm uncomfortable. She's seen me naked, and I really don't think that's fair. Why the hell did she have to go and get married? Now I get to feel guilty because I joked around with Sam about sleeping with her.

"No, but I was happy to pretend to be one. I guess it means you were the wolf, right?"

"Not the big bad one," I clarify, and she laughs again. Presses her hand against my forehead in concern. No fever, I could have told her that. I'm always too hot when I have a fever. Now? I'm just cold all the time. It's okay. Pull my head away from her, my hands catching hers. "What's your husband like?"

"Tall. Handsome and charming." I roll my eyes and she laughs. I missed her laugh. Didn't realize it until now, but I missed it. It wasn't like Dad's or Sammy's, or even mine. It was always real. Still is. "He's got blue eyes, and a great smile, and I know that I'll be happy with him. His name's William. And I won't tell you all the pet names we have for each other." I pretend to gag. It's what I'm supposed to do, play the high school boy she knew a long time ago, one that got left behind in that place he went to school along with her. Seems like I've left pieces of myself everywhere we've gone. Just can't seem to figure out what's left. She looks at her watch, no don't go.

"Well, my shift's over," she says, gently taking my hand. "You were a mess when Sam brought you in, Dean, what the hell happened to you?"

"Didn't he tell you?"

"Most people don't put themselves in a coma. You were always stronger than that." Always? You think so? What the hell do you know about anything? Strong enough? Try stupid, Tracey, try stupid enough to do everything my dad told me, and stupid enough to stay. Sam left, and hell, if I'd gone with him, maybe his girlfriend would still be alive. Strong enough. Bullshit, try scared. Scared to leave my dad, because then I'd have to think on my own, and it was just easier to take orders, not have to think. Because if I ever let myself think then I'd realize how stupid this whole life is, and what kind of things our dad was really doing to us, dragging us on his damn vendetta. And soon enough, that's all that's left. Then she's touching my cheek, wiping off tears. Strong my ass, apparently. "Y'know, Sam's changed a lot, too" she says softly. "He's not the kid I remember at all. Then again, he's also grown half a million feet since I last saw him."

"And I'm still the same height," I mutter irritably. It's been a point of annoyance since as long as Sam managed to reach my height, forget pass it.

"Let me change into some normal clothes and clock out, okay?"

"Well, 'cause I've got so many places to be," my voice drips with sarcasm. She just smiles and shakes her head, guess she's thinkin' something like 'same old Dean' or whatever. Maybe I am. Maybe I just realize how much more worthless I am than I used to be. Guess nothing really changes. She comes back, in blue jeans and a soft long sleeved shirt, maybe something she was wearing under her scrubs –I wasn't paying attention. She sits down on the edge of the bed, next to me. I have no idea what she wants from me. So, "Where's Sam?"

"Well, he should be sleeping. Considering we threatened to admit him if he wouldn't get some rest. I can get a hold of your uncle, if you want. But Sam? He needs some sleep. It's sweet, though. Then again you two were always pretty cute around each other." My face goes red, and I listen to her giggle a tiny bit. "What? He wanted to be just like you, and you were trying so hard to be someone he could look up to. It wasn't like you didn't realize his world already revolved around you. Like you didn't know he already looked up to you and found you worthy in every way little brothers find their big brothers worthy." I feel my face go redder, and she sighs, but with this like, motherly smile or something on her face, and she lightly touches my hair. "Seriously Dean? He thought you were God, or something, the way he looked at you. Tried to get your attention every second of every minute. And he wanted me to like him so badly, because you liked me, and so he thought if I liked him, you'd like him even more." So what changed? He never wanted to be like me, never wanted to hunt. Couldn't just take orders from Dad. If he'd wanted to be like me, he wouldn't have left us. Sure, he said "come with me, Dean" with those big hazel eyes that every single other time in the world got him everything he wanted from me, but not that time. I had to stay, because it was the right thing to do.

"Dunno about that, he changed a bit," I grin a little.

"Dunno about that, seems to me he's still trying to be just like his big brother," she says, mocking my words and tone. "Still trying to talk like you, walk like you, be brave like you."

"You're gonna make me sick," I tell her.

"Well, he doesn't manage to have your casual swagger that used to piss off the teachers from the start, and his lexicon sure doesn't match yours, but he says some of the things I remember you saying a lot. Does the phrase 'son of a bitch' ring any bells to you?" I grin a little.

"I think that's our dad, not me. I got it from Dad. Along with every other curse word I know, and the imagination to string 'em together differently every time," I grin. I can't help it. Dad…he woulda made sailors blush and cover their ears.

"You honestly think he was trying to be like your dad?" I consider that a few minutes.

"Hell no," I chuckle. "Him and Dad never got along, always arguing, getting up in each other's faces." I hate those memories. But Sam was so like Dad. Sam way his jaw jutted out and his shoulders went back, chest puffed up. It was ridiculous, the way they looked and stood. Perfect mirrors of each other. Me? I was the little one in the middle trying to push them apart. Remember one time they both shoved me out of the way, together. Hit the table then hit my head. Expendable in their little battles. But it stopped them both. They wouldn't even look at each other –like that made it any better for me.

"Seems to me like Sam was a lot like you, then."

"I never got up in my dad's face!" I protest, sitting up a little higher. It doesn't hurt. I don't hurt. Arguing with Tracey like I used to forever ago. I don't hurt.

"No, but you got up in everyone else's. God you remember Ms. Sweeney? You had it in for her like no other, god, Dean," she laughs. I remember. Bio, I hated that class.

"Well she was wrong, all the time. It wasn't my fault she was, just hers." I grin. Feel like I'm a kid again. Her smile's like that, though. Always made me feel normal, but a little out of my depth. Hope her husband's a good guy, or there's going to be a serious ass kicking.

"She was never wrong," Tracey mumbles, exasperated as she tucks some hairs behind her ear.

"She so was! Telling us that only humans and animals exist, like there's nothing in between!"

"Like what, Dean? A werewolf?" she laughs at me like she always did, and I grin a little.

"There's more proof on them then there is god, and people believe in that putz in the sky."

"I'll have you know I put a lot of faith in that putz, and I've been praying for you since the day we met. You came to school with a black eye and stitches, you remember that? I figured since your dad dropped you off he was the one doing it. He wasn't, was he?" she seems sure. She's not really asking me.

"He only hit me a couple times, and never enough to leave any marks. And never like that. He never wanted to hurt me like that. Plenty of other things able to do it." She always had a habit of getting me to talk. She has eyes like Sammy, the way she looks at me like she knows everything, but just wants me to say it out loud. Like when Sam wanted me to read to him books he had memorized. It's like that.

"Y'know, I can almost believe your crazy werewolf stories," she teases, squeezing my hand.

"Well maybe I'm not as full of shit as you were always saying I am."

"I never said that, I just said 'if you were any more full of shit your eyes would turn brown.' And Dean, that'd be a shame. Green's a rare color." It's easy to talk to her in a way it isn't easy to talk to Sam. But she has no clue. Ignorance is bliss. I missed having friends. Easier on me than Sam, I'm tougher, but still. Hurt all the time. Chuckling, I shrug.

"Yours are brown, tell me, what does that mean?"

"I'm naturally beautiful."

"Or naturally full of crap," I point out, my turn to mock her.

"How're you really doing?"

"I'm alive. How about that?" Can we please leave it at that?

"You can't fool me. It's been like ten years, but you're still a failure as a liar."

"Plenty of people believe everything I say! I don't know what you're talking about," I mumble, dropping my eyes a little in irritation. I don't want to drive her away. I'm so sick of deliberately driving people away, and I don't want to do it anymore. I'd like some friends who don't kill the things that go bump in the night for a living. Her phone rings and we both jump.

"Sorry," she tells me, squeezing my hand again. Answering her phone, "Yeah, why don't you come meet met at the hospital. There's someone here you should meet." Another few seconds, she laughs, probably something about hospitals being bad meeting places, and she says "I love you," before hanging up.

"Lemme guess," I squint my eyes and scratch at my head, pretending to think about it, "Was that…William?" she rolls her eyes at me.

"No," she tells me with exaggerated sarcasm.

"William knows about me?" Isn't that kind of awkward somehow?

"We met at a church thing, and I had you on my prayer list, and so, he tried to hit on me by asking what you were to me. I told him just a friend who had a really rough life he wouldn't share with anyone, and that I hoped you were still okay. So he said he'd pray for you, too. I laughed at him, and he asked me out to coffee. I said yes, and here we are."

"You're joking."

"No, I'm not." But she's smiling at me. So she's amused by me. Why does everyone always think I'm funny? Do I have something on my forehead that I can't see? Something that says "point at laugh at the idiot?"

"You have to be, that's such a bull story." I guess I just think it's weird anyone would care about me like that. "You barely knew me."

"Didn't take a genius to figure out something was wrong, Dean. Just like right now? Something's bugging the heck out of you," she tells me. Lotta things bugging me, lady. Right now you're starting to turn into one of them. Not that I'm really all that upset. She's honest. Not pulling punches. And she's holding my hand. I can live with that.

"Not much. I mean, what do you want some guy who just woke up out of a coma to feel? Honestly, two months?"

"Yeah."

"I don't think I believe that," I said, ducking my head down as I ran a tongue over my upper lip a little, buying some time to think before I lifted my head up again, pursing my lips slightly. One eyebrow raised a little.

"I can't believe you make that face!" she grins, and I can't hold onto my look of annoyance any longer, before I grin. "You, you made that face every single time Ms. Sweeney said anything! And if anyone brought up family in any of our classes. Some teacher wanted us to share our feelings about something, and you got that look…" She giggled helplessly for a few seconds, before I started laughing. She always made me laugh. Then again, Sam could do that, too, a lot. When he wasn't driving me insane. But, he had this stupid thing he'd do with his face…he'd put on his sunglasses real low on his nose and then wrinkle it or whatever and make the glasses walk up his face. Seriously the funniest thing I've ever seen. Wonder if he can still do it. I outta see if I can get him to.

"It was Mr…Mr…Wilkinson. Mr. Wilkinson. "He was like…what was that class, even? Some stupid elective I got shoved in to take up room in my schedule I think. It was fifth period or I would have skipped it like I would a sixth period class."

"You liked sixth period."

"Yeah well, I hated fifth, but there was nowhere to go for just an hour. And campus security actually did their jobs! You know how much that sucked? I've been to high school in every state, and the one our dad picks for us is the one that has decent security. You gotta be kidding me."

"It was family psych wasn't it?"

"The class? Yeah, I think so. I wanted the food class."

"You? Cook?"

"Oh, hell no, me eat." I grin, I love how easy it is to make her laugh. And there's nothing dark in her eyes. Like, she knows as soon as the laughter stops the tears'll start. She doesn't live that life. God I'm jealous. Then she looks up, at the door. Damn my instincts and training are shot to hell. William, I guess. He's tallish. Not as tall as me, I notice. Even if I'm the one in the hospital bed. He's sorta well built, I guess. He's not a hunter. It's hard not to judge 'normal' people. But, he can take care of her if it ever came to a fight. Grey eyes, square jaw, but he looks slightly bookish. Reminds me a little of that Wesley guy on "Angel." Sorta, just his face and the glasses, those square thin wire rims. He's professional, but his face lights up when he sees Tracey the same way hers does. It's the way Dad and Mom used to look at each other, and I feel like I shouldn't be in the room. Then he turns his eyes on me.

"So you're Dean," he says, holding out his hand. His smile's warm, he's not threatened by me at all. Concerned, even. Then again, I am in a hospital. Is he wearing a suit? "Just got off work," he apologizes to Tracey. "Pleased to meet you."

"Nice to meet you, too. We've been talking, and now I know everything about you," I grin. Hopefully he can stand a little ribbing. I wouldn't be me if I didn't give this guy a little bit of a hard time.

"Well that's good, saves me from having to prove how amazing I am," he laughs. I grin at Tracey. I like him. He's good, he's a good person. I could never be that guy. Wish I could, wish I could find some girl like Tracey and play Mr. Right for her.

"From what I hear, you didn't sound all that great," I say, eyebrows raised in confusion as I turn my eyes to Tracey. "This is William, right? Not some other guy you haven't told me about yet, right?" She shakes her head, amused. William looks at me, bemused. I think he doesn't mind me, either.

"You never told me he had a sense of humor," he says, looking at her. He sounds almost indignant. "I would have brought my best jokes if I figured you knew anyone with a sense of humor."

"Don't you start on my parents again," she warns, and I can't stop the chuckling. "You guys you're priceless. If I had a camera…then again, someone'd come and ruin your lives, it's a little too Stepford, y'know?" Where's Sam? She should really get to see Sam. I miss my brother. I want him back, I feel so out of my depth alone with these people. I don't really know her, for all I feel like she hasn't changed. Where's Bobby?

"Sorry, I know sometimes we're a little intimidating," she tells me. Then looks up at William. He's a nice guy, I like the way he looks at her, respects her.

"Why don't I go wait for you outside, okay?"

"I won't be long," he kisses her cheek. Probably sparing me a gross make out scene I don't need right now. Once he's out of the room I look at her.

"He's a good guy."

"I like to think so." I smile, it's just a twitch of one side of my mouth, but it's the best I can do right now. I'm tired. So damn tired.

"Well, I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

"Yeah, guess you will," I grimace.

"You look tired, get some sleep. If you need me to go get someone if you need something to help you sleep…?"

"No, I'll be okay. I'm always okay, you know me." She rolls her eyes kissing my forehead before she stands up and leaves. Sighing a little, why can't I just let go and live that life? Find a nice girl. Sam wouldn't mind. We could both stop hunting. I could sure as hell use a wingman. He can, too, considering he's a total chicken when it comes to chicks. But, we could do it. Live our own lives for once. We got the yellow eyed son of a bitch. Killed him. Why the hell do we have to keep paying for our father's mistakes? His life, his damn vendetta? When do we finally get to be free of all that? I want to know who's sitting up there deciding all this bullshit. I'm gonna give that bastard a piece of my mind if I ever get up there. How many times can you go to hell? I don't deserve to go to hell. I don't.

Dean fell into an uneasy sleep that lasted almost the entire night, Sam was there when he woke up.

"Hey," Sam said softly. "How're you feeling?"

"Not too bad, why?"

"They want to start doing some tests and things to make sure you're at one hundred percent before they let us take you home."

"Like last time with a friggin' shrink?"

"No. Like PT stuff. I mean, with the whole coma thing, y'know, you gotta get back some of the muscle…"

"Yeah. I know. It'll be okay Sam, I always manage to pass all my tests, even when I forget to study."

"You just sat by the smartest girl in the class and made eyes at her!" Sam explodes. I grin.

"So?"

"That's totally not passing by anyone's definition, Dean, that's cheating."

"I graduated, didn't I?" I laugh, knowing I'm driving him insane, and it's so worth it in so many ways. I can't help it.

"I don't think what you did counts."

"Dude, I pulled off a 2.8," I say.

"That's not something to be proud of!" Sam explodes.

"Well excuuuse me, Brain Trust," I mutter, I can't resist pushing his buttons every chance I get. Things feel almost like normal. "You missed a chance to talk to Tracey and William."

"William?"

"The hubby, god Sam, where have you been?"

"Well guess she's not gonna be sleeping with you."

"Dude, I so wasn't serious when I said that. We weren't really like that."

"Bull, Dean, you had the biggest crush on her."

"Had, past tense, you're a nerd, you should know that. Past tense. Implies it's not happening anymore unless it's progressive, and then it's present progressive, isn't it?"

"How the hell do you know that?" I pause and think about it.

"I have no idea where that came from." Sam starts laughing.

"I'm the Brain Trust?"

"Yeah, you so are, Sammy."

"It's Sam," he puffs.

"Sure thing, Sammy, I'll remember that it's Sam, okay Sammy?"

"I'm gonna hurt you so bad when this is all over."

"Ooh, I'm shaking in my boots."

"Like I care." I look down, he's holding my hand. Funny, didn't even notice. I don't pull away. Not important. Well, it's okay. He can have his stupid chick flick moment.

"You're such a wannabe smart ass," he tells me.

"You're the wannabe, geek boy." Some nurse walks in, not Tracey. Some part of me is relieved, the other part disappointed.

I glance at my brother. He's never liked hospitals, so the slight frown on his face when the nurse comes in isn't exactly a surprise. But all the same, he seems almost worried. She's got a tray with her, not containing food, but needles. Oh, Dean's going to love this. He hates getting shots. I hate getting shots because then my whole arm is sore for like a day, and it makes me irritable and pretty much just ruins the whole day. And even when you're five, some lame ass lollipop does _not_ solve all your earthly problems caused by someone jamming a needle into your arm. She starts explaining what she's doing, and Dean tunes her out, so I do, too.

When Dean's asleep, Tracey's shift starts. She checks on him first, smiling a little at how he looks so much younger when he's sleeping peacefully. Sometimes he doesn't do so well, but at least he's not in a coma. Wondering how she managed to not recognize him earlier, she shakes her head, figuring that she never was able to imagine him ever getting hurt enough to need a hospital. He was always acting so tough. When her lunch break starts, she checks on him again.

"Hey," he says calmly.

"Hey yourself. Still doing okay?"

"That nurse in here earlier? She's a real murderer in training, I think she likes stabbing things," he complains. Then grins a little.

"Aww," Tracey says, a little sarcastic, "you want some ice?"

"Aren't you supposed to be nice to me?"

"Lunch break," she explains with a shrug.

"Ah." Dean chews on the corner of his lip for a second, trying to get the courage to ask something that's clearly bothering him.

"You okay? You shouldn't need any morphine, but…is your head bugging you?"

"No, what? No, I'm fine," he says, slightly confused. She moves closer, sitting down in the chair Sam usually takes up. Dean thinks it's funny that you can still see the chair when Tracey sits in it, unlike Sasquatch with his long gangling limbs taking up all the space on the poor chair, draped all over it. He looks like a sock monkey when he's sitting down like that.

"I just…sorry that…I left without saying anything. That was a…that's not the kind of thing that friends do to each other," he says, clearly struggling with the words. Clearly begging to still be friends, to find some sort of redemption for a long trail of unheard goodbyes. Gripping his hand tightly, Tracey smiles a little.

"Dean, it's fine. It wasn't like I was mad at you. I knew it wasn't like you'd do that on purpose or anything." His jaw tightens.

"I know," he whispers, "it's just…we left so many people behind, and I never got a chance…eventually I figured out it wasn't worth trying to make friends because you kept hurting people, but I just…" the bitterness in his voice becomes inescapable.

"Dean, I promise you," she says, using his name again to make sure he's listening, "I promise you no one blamed you. Okay? And if they did get mad, they're over it." How many burdens can one guy bring down on himself before he gets crushed under the weight? Tracey vaguely wonders if the reason he's had this breakdown is because of all the things he blames himself for, and she can see in his eyes that it's a hell of a list. "You had some friends other than me, and y'know what? Those guys? They wanted to find you. They weren't all that interested in being mad at you, they were worried. Your dad seriously made things look bad for you. He didn't withdraw you from school or anything, you were just gone. Ms. Rosenberg asked me where you were every day for three weeks straight. I even got a few calls from teachers asking if I'd seen you, because they knew you put up with me." Considering the fights he'd gotten into constantly and the way he'd deliberately shunned the majority of his peers it was no wonder people attached Tracey to him, she was the only one who could keep him in check. Considering all she had to do was say his name right, and he'd back down. Mainly in class. But, all the same. It wasn't like he needed a caretaker, but people seemed to associate her with him in that manner. Or more like a zookeeper, depending on the teacher.

Dean nodded, his eyes refusing to meet hers. "Yeah, okay," he whispered.

"You sure you're doing okay?" she asked him, it wasn't like he could hide the tears rolling off his cheeks and onto the bedding.

"Yeah," he said, rubbing at his face and forcing a smile when he looked back up at her.

"You missed one," she said, lightly brushing a tear off his cheek. Wrapping her arms around him, he didn't cry, he just leaned into it, hugging her back. "Y'know, you go visit any of those people, they'd still be proud to call you a friend, you know that, right?" He nodded into her shoulder, and she held on until her watch beeped, signifying the end of her break. "I'll come check on you later," she said gently, smiling.

_(reviews please?) _


	15. Chapter 14: Carry On Wayward Son

_(**Random note**: this was technically chapter 13, and at a request of the girl this is written for, and at a review request, I wrote in that chapter with Tracey. I **never** intended it to be there, or to include her at all. Also, this has taken so long in getting to you because I ended up losing several paragraphs of chapter 17, and instead of trying to re-write them, I went back to page 1 and started editing. I figured I would get up to this chapter and edit it before I even bothered to post it. I'm sure I'll have to re upload some of the others with the more drastic changes. I would like to thank my beta, Mish, as always. Check out her fics, she's a real laugh. (And a better writer than I am...she has heard of these things called...'plots'...) so, hope you enjoy. thanks to anyone and everyone who reviews, this chapter also goes out to you guys.) _

**Chapter 14: Carry On Wayward Son **

Dean's fallen asleep on me, breathing softly, he's so exhausted. He tolerated physical therapy for about a week before he snapped and couldn't take it anymore. It was just…too hard, I guess. The frustration, and dealing with his body fighting him. Which was the whole point of why we were trying to get him to do it in the first place, but it drove him insane. We brought him home, with the promise we'd make him keep going through all those exercises, and make him work on his hand eye coordination and fine and gross motor skills. He also had a chance to say goodbye to Tracey, for real. I think it made him feel a little better. Like he could make up for some of the crap that happened because of Dad.

So far he's just slept a lot, and I'm always afraid he's not going to wake up. When we were little, and I got too tired to stay awake, but too scared to sleep I always fell asleep on Dean, in fact I'm sure I've drooled on him more than once. Fortunately for his pride and mine, he's not drooling now, and as far as I know he never drools on anything. Just me when I think about Bela. God he'd never let me live that down. But, we were watching TV. Dean was insisting that he was fine, and wanted to stay up. Something about not being able to sleep. Bobby was ready to kill him, or force him into bed, but I figured Dean'd be out soon enough and I could just pick him up and carry him to bed.

Dad's done it for Dean a whole buncha times. I remember because I'd be asleep in bed, and Dad'd come into the motel room, and I'd sort of wake up a little, only to see him holding Dean in his arms, and settling him into bed with me, or into the bed next to me. That's all I really remember, and those are my few memories of Dad ever being physical with Dean. For the most part he couldn't be bothered, unless it was to correct a stance or a hold on something, and even then he was rough and cold. Not the same man who picked up my brother and tucked him into bed after gently tugging his shoes off and kissing the side of his head.

But I'm not Dad. I won't ever let myself be like that. Shifting my arm around Dean's shoulders, then under his legs, I haul him up, making sure he doesn't move too much. I wait a few seconds, making sure he's still asleep. He'd kill me if he woke up right now. Carrying him to the bed Bobby's letting us have for Dean to sleep in, I deposit him gently onto it, tugging the covers up over him. As usual, I make sure the light's on, and that the curtains are open. That way when the sun comes up it'll shine on his face and he'll actually sleep longer. I don't know what happened, but he gets really antsy in the dark. Even in the Impala. I don't know how to fix it, I can't make it better. Bobby's noticed, but there's not much we can do.

Stepping out of my shoes once I'm in my own room, I crawl into the bed, not bothering to undress. I'm too tired to even think about it. Dean stayed up pretty late. Then again he falls asleep all through the day, especially after eating. But, he's getting better at moving around, he's more graceful, more how I'm used to him being, he's even managed to pack some muscle back on. Not enough, and he's still not a good color, but it'll get better. Considering he spends a lot of time outside messing around with car parts. It's also really helped his hands, Bobby's about ready to let Dean try and put one of the older guns back together. No bullets, we don't trust him with anything sharp, forget bullets _and_ a gun. Don't know why, it just doesn't feel like a good idea yet. Then again, Dean hasn't complained or brought it up at all, so it can't be bothering him, either. But, it's good to see Dean able to use a fork. We both figured most of it was that earlier his fingers had just been broken, now that they're healed, he seems to be doing fine. Same goes for just about everything…with all the wounds healed, he's doing fine. Still shaky, and he's really horrible at catching anything, I've accidentally pegged him so many times now I'm about ready to tell him to take a shot at me to make us even. _Sam? Yeah? Clock me one. What? Let's go, you get a freebee. C'mon! You look like you just went twelve rounds with a block of cement, Dean. I'll take a rain check. _Although the odds of him taking it are just as good as the odds I'll take him up on that previous offer. Fortunately I haven't hit him with anything hard. Other than the remote, which he told me to throw to him, so it's his own fault it hit him. It's so hard to sleep. Not knowing what I'm going to find when I wake up.

--

The smell of coffee pulls me from my dreams, for which I'm grateful. I've got enough nightmares, and the longer I'm asleep, the more time I have to relive them. Enough. Pulling myself out of bed, I'm pleased with how much more fluid my movements are. Padding into the kitchen, Bobby's made a fairly pathetic attempt at clearing his house so that it's got enough room for the three of us. Once I'm better, I'm going to start doing some things to help out, pay Bobby back. Like fixing some of those broken bookshelves, and seeing if I can find enough wood to put together a few more, just to get the books off the floor. There's a lot of wood stored under a tarp that's definitely not firewood. No idea what it was for, but I'll ask before I use it. Whatever it is, I doubt he's ever going to use it for anything, anyway. Pouring myself a cup of coffee before anyone can stop me, the restrictions they've put on my eating habits drive me insane. Don't eat this, you can eat this, you need more of this, blah blah blah blah! No beer, no coffee, no soda…life isn't worth living. Although I'll admit orange juice isn't the worst thing in the world, Sunny D is better, but hey. They could be trying to get me to drink milk, which is so not happening. But, it's all about vitamins and building my body up again, and I don't care. I'll be fine. I just need to eat food, and so far I have yet to find any going into my stomach. But, it's better than nothing. It's not like I can drive. Sam has the keys somewhere, and I don't have the dexterity to hotwire the Impala. I'll get it back, I'm doing better every day. I can almost walk quietly enough to sneak up on Sam, like I used to all the time. I spend a lot of time outside, now, though. In the sun, or under the clouds, if it's a crappy day outside, I feel trapped inside in a way I never used to. Almost claustrophobic. And considering I spent almost all my time in a car, it's just weird. I should be fine, but for whatever reason…Bobby thinks that it has to do with whatever brought me back, but I don't know. It's never been like I have all the answers, and it's not about to change now. That would be too convenient.

Having managed to drink half a mug of coffee before I hear footsteps, I pour more into the mug, before turning and seeing Sam and thrusting the mug at him. "I forgot how much crap you put into your coffee to make it not coffee anymore, so you do it," I tell him, acting like I'd been intending on giving him the coffee as I move over to the fridge pulling it open –grateful it hides my face, and pulling the orange juice out. The words come out in a rush, and I still have trouble keeping them from slurring, but I'm doing better. Managing to get a swig of the juice into my mouth before Sam can approach, I know that it'll mask the scent of coffee on my breath. At least to Sam, I think my sense of smell is better, hearing too. Then again I've been the freaky one lately. Taking another sip of the juice, I make a face. "When're you guys gonna let me have coffee?" I whine irritably.

"When you're not walking around like you're drunk all the time," Sam bitches right back.

"I can't help it I don't have enough sugar in my system," I mutter. Those M&M's went too fast, and now Sam won't get more. Bitch.

--

Walking into the kitchen, Dean's up. Sam's up, which is normal. "Sam, I think I found something you outta check out," I tell him, handing him a file. "Something's taking pieces outta people, and I'm guessing it's not your average bear." Dean grins a little, before his face falls. He's not going on this hunt. Probably not for a while. "So, Dean, what'd y'say to helping me out in the yard?"

"Putting cars back together, or scrapping them?" he asks suspiciously.

"Stripping 'em for parts," I tell him, watching Sam skim the file.

"I gotta do this tonight," he says, brows furrowed.

"Sorry, didn't find out about it, and there's no one to call. But, you'll be able to handle it, right?" He looks at Dean, and Dean refuses to even notice him, still staring at the cup of orange juice in his hand. Taking a deep drink before turning brightly to Sam, he acts oblivious. He's always been good at that. It keeps people from remembering him, or giving him any credit for anything. Good trait to have in a hunter. Unfortunately sometimes we get so used to the act he puts on we stop bothering to look past it.

"I'll help strip the cars it might be fun," Dean says suddenly, then grins at me. "That came out all wrong," he mutters, shuffling off to go get dressed. He's back to wearing jeans and his usual amount of layers, which is a comfort. Both him'n Sam have been worrying me a lot lately.

"Bobby, I'm not sure I should leave him here."

"Sam you can't take him with you. He'll either stay in the car and get attacked, or refuse to stay in the car and get you both killed."

"I know, but someone…I shouldn't leave Dean. I promised."

"Sam, he'll say something, alright? I'll talk to him, you just worry about how you're gonna handle it, alright? That thing needs killin,' and I'm not even sure what it is yet."

"I dunno Bobby."

"Sam, he won't be alone. I'll be here with him, and you've only got twelve hours to work this thing, he'll be asleep through most of it anyway."

"But he's not sleeping well and I just..."

"Sam, people are gonna die. And I'd rather that didn't happen. I know you love your brother, and he knows it, too. Sam, he does. Sometimes he don't act that way, but he's not an idiot. He knows." My words seem to comfort Sam, and I'm glad I was able to do something for him. "Besides, you gotta get your idjit ass into shape again, it's been a while since you hunted."

"I couldn't leave him Bobby, not if he woke up. I didn't want him to wake up alone."

"I know."

"And I'll keep an eye on him while you're gone, okay?"

"I know you will, Bobby. You always keep an eye on us," Sam smiles. He looks relieved.

"You boys were trained to hunt. And you didn't get the break from it like Dean did." Sure, Sam went to Stanford, but Stanford isn't the same thing as hell. "He might need a little time to settle back into things again, get used to the idea of hunting. He's not up to it yet, Sam." And he's a damn fine hunter, too. Was. He will be, again.

"Yeah, but, I really, I'm not sure I should…" Sam waffles.

"Ask Dean what he thinks."

"He'll tell me to go, even if he doesn't want me to."

"Because it's the right thing Sam, and sometimes the right thing is hard."

--

Sam packed up for the hunt, and waited until a few hours before dark to head out, reluctantly leaving Dean behind with Bobby. Dean refused to make eye contact with him, and muttered a sullen goodbye before disappearing into the living room to watch television. After Sam left, it only took Dean an hour before he started pacing, hovering around the door and wondering when Sam would be back.

--

"Dean, sit the hell down!" I snap, I can't take it anymore, he's been walking in front of the door for the past two hours. And he's gotten shakier and paler with every pass. "You're worse than a love-sick puppy!" The look he turns on me makes my blood run cold. If looks could kill, I'd be six feet under. "Well you are," I huff, deciding to leave it at that. Turning the news up louder, to hopefully drown out the steady padding of Dean's feet on the flooring, I can't ignore him for very long. Especially as he seems determined to run himself ragged waiting on his brother. "He won't be back for another couple hours, and you know it. Hell he might not back till after sunup so you can just plant your ass!"

So, being Dean, he leans against the wall, watching the door.

"I just wanna make sure he's okay."

"By driving me insane?"

"I can't go with him, Bobby!"

"No, you can't. So stop being an idjit, and sit yourself down before you faint."

"I don't _faint_," he hisses, before settling himself on the couch, his foot tapping. I'm going to kill him.

"Goddamnit Dean!"

"What!?"

"Just hold still, or I'm going to hurt you!" He huffs this time, turning away from me. Softening, "Dean, I know you're worried about him, and this won't make you feel any better, but he did fine without you on hunts. He took care of himself, and he's still alive. After a year. He can handle this one, too. So stop it, and either go to bed, or hold still!"

--

It takes more effort than it should to stop my knee from bouncing up and down. Every time I accidentally start to twitch, or drum my fingers, or anything I get a death glare from Bobby. I can't take it, and spring off the couch, to start pacing in the hallway, waiting for Sam to come back. He's got to be back soon, it's past midnight. Can't take that long, it gets dark early, he should have had plenty of time. Unless something went wrong. Or he got lost. Sam always gets lost. He should have taken me with him. Sam, I should be with him. We're brothers, and it's my job to protect Sammy. I'm so tired, the room starts to spin sometimes, and blackness fuzzes out the edges of my vision, but I can't stop the pacing. Bobby brings a chair, putting it down in the hallway and glaring meaningfully at it, and then me. I force myself to sit, drumming my fingers on my thigh, unable to stop the other leg from bouncing up and down. A few minutes later, he's pushing a mug into my hands.

"Hot chocolate?" Seriously?

"There's rum in there. And I'm not giving you coffee, you're already acting like you already drank a whole pot." Fair enough, I figure, taking a sip. Half of it's probably alcohol, which soothes my nerves like no other.

"He'll be back soon, won't he?" I find myself asking, and cringe. Great, way to be well adjusted. Gotta get myself under control again. For Sam, for Bobby. Okay Dean you can do this.

"I told you, he might not be back until sunup." Thank god for Bobby, at least he's always straight with me. Not like Dad, sometimes. Rubbing at my face, I hate remembering. Like the one time he was two weeks late back from dealing with a wendigo.

Two extra weeks, Sam and I were alone. He hadn't paid for that much extra, so I'd had to use our food money to keep us there, because I couldn't get a-hold of Dad, and if he came back and we weren't there. I would have called Pastor Jim like we were supposed to, but if I did, then Sam would know that Dad was in trouble, and I just, I couldn't do that, I couldn't let Sammy down like that. I made sure he had something to eat. Hell, I stole food. No one figured the boy wandering around with his baby brother holding his hand was gonna be stealing anything. Forget granola bars. Or whatever I'd managed to stuff into my pockets as we trailed behind this middle aged woman, out of her sight, but close enough no one figured we were on our own. It was pretty clever. I remember how guilty I felt, stealing. Funny considering all the credit card scams we ran, and run. I _still_ feel bad about ripping off that grocery store. Dad finally came home, and I remember Sam ran to him, the way Dad crouched down to hug Sam, standing up with him. Holding out his arm for a hug from me, too. I wouldn't go near him. I remember crossing my arms over my chest, god Sam was too little to remember any of it, and he was so little I could barely take care of him. He was three. So happy to see Dad, and I was too, I just knew if I went over to him I'd cry, and I couldn't cry in front of Dad, or Sammy, especially not Sammy. If I lost it in front of Sam, he'd start crying too, and then Sam'd know that things weren't okay, and I'd been lying to him for two weeks. And I couldn't do that, I couldn't face Sam if he knew I was lying to him. It was hard enough to face him as it was. Dad told Sam to go to bed, "I'll come in and read you a story okay? But I wanna talk to Dean first." I just remember how hungry I was. I'd managed to stretch our food out, giving most of it to Sam. I didn't want to talk, I didn't want to have anything to do with him, I was so angry. Not for myself, but for Sam, making Sam go hungry, making Sam worry. It was just my job to deal with it, so what was the point of complaining? "Dean." He just said my name, and I felt my eyes well up with tears. God I was pathetic. "Dean, c'mere." And I just 'yessir'ed him like I always did, and walked over, refusing to meet his eyes or to drag my feet. Some weird mixture of defiance and something else, shame, maybe? I don't think I'll ever know. But, I remember him picking me up, and my bursting into tears. How ashamed I was that I was crying. I remember hitting him, slamming my fists against his chest, like he even felt it, even if he hadn't been wearing his leather jacket. "Dean, I'm sorry."

"Why didn't you call?!" I tried so hard to stop crying, and I couldn't wipe the tears away fast enough, and all I really wanted was to hide my face in his jacket and cry. But, soldiers don't do that. Winchesters don't have tears.

"I couldn't get to a phone, Dean. There were two of them, and I was figuring on just one." My stomach growled. "When was the last time you ate?" I wouldn't answer. "When'd Sam last eat?"

"Today, he had lunch." And that was all the food we had left, I'd been ready to call Pastor Jim. I couldn't keep taking care of us alone anymore.

"C'mon, let's go find somewhere open and get you something to eat."

"It's okay, I don't need anything." He just walked into Sam's room, still holding me. I think he knew I'd refuse to go if I was on my own two feet.

"Sammy?"

"Yeah Dad?"

"Dean'n I are gonna go get some food, you gonna be okay here alone for a little while?" I'd set up the salt like I knew to, I'd never mess up again. And Sam was too tired to come with us, it'd be mean to keep him up. So we went out. The only place that was open was some 24 hour espresso stand, and I remember walking in, my stomach growling again. I remember how hot my face felt, and the way Dad wouldn't look at me, and I thought he was ashamed of me, but, in retrospect, he was probably ashamed of himself. Guilty, even. Then again, maybe not. I was always screwing up. I remember I picked a bagel, and I think there was peanut butter on it, I never really liked cream cheese. Butter was better. And the stuff's just so bland. I don't get why anyone'd bother. But I think the lady working the counter put the peanut butter on special, because most people don't do that, I don't think. But I knew I needed the protein, on some level. Dad kept me close to him the whole time. "Dean, what'd you think we bring Sam back some hot chocolate and a blueberry muffin for breakfast?" I wasn't sure how to answer that. Did I get food, too, or was this it? Dad never starved us, I was just so hungry I couldn't think, I'd been so long since I'd eaten my fill I almost couldn't eat the whole bagel. I think your stomach starts to shrink or something. I do remember sitting in Dad's lap, and letting myself lean back into his chest. Trying really hard not to get crumbs on him or me. Remember sometimes he'd sort of run a hand over my hair, like he was trying to satisfy himself that I was there and okay. Licking peanut butter off my finger tips and my palms where it'd dripped. Probably organic instead of the usual stuff. Then everything's a blur from there until we got back to the motel, which means I fell asleep. But, the sun was up when we were back, Sam was just waking up, and we had muffins and hot chocolate, Dad had coffee, and then we packed up and left. Sam and I fell asleep in the back, his head in my lap, me slumped against the door. Next thing I remember Dad's dumping us with Pastor Jim, telling me he's sorry, but he's got another hunt, and doesn't want to risk us ending up without food again, and that he'll make it up to us. It was my birthday. Sam acted funny, like he wasn't sure if he was remembering right or not, but he was too little. But birthdays were always something he looked forward to, and asked about constantly. "When's my birthday?" although with the slightest lisp, and then "When's Dean's birthday? And Dad's?" he just liked the cake. When we had it. I don't think it was ever about the presents, they were always lame. Things we needed, like clothes. Or something shiny and deadly. Either way, it was never my cup of tea, exactly. Christmas was only a little worse, all things considered. But Pastor Jim kept giving me the same looks. We had a decent dinner, for once. Sam was excited, and I just forced myself to chew. It wasn't like it didn't taste good, I just didn't want to eat. When Sam was in bed, I asked Jim "Dad's not coming back, is he?"

"What? Dean, no, he's coming back for you! Why would you even think that?" Jim demanded. I remember how ashamed I was, and how distressed I'd made Pastor Jim feel, and the guilt from that. I didn't have an answer. Not then, not now. I don't know why he left me, or Sam. I figured he woulda stuck around for Sam. But that's what love is, I guess. It makes you stupid. Especially if it's for your family.

--

When I open the door, the first thing I see is Dean asleep in a chair, fingers loosely curled around the handle of a mug. Knowing he'd be upset if I just walked in and he didn't wake up, I quietly shut the door again, making a louder fuss that I know'll wake him up, because when I get the door open again –along with all the theatrics, his face was peering anxiously at me as he wrenches the door open wider. Eyes scanning me for injury, I grin at him. "I'm okay Mom, sorry I came home late," I tell him, before he scowls at me. "I know it's past my curfew."

"Why I outta…" Dean mumbles, no spark to his voice. Suddenly concerned, I catch him by the shoulder, spinning him around to face me, when he almost falls I feel my heart leap up into my throat.

"Dude, you're exhausted, have you been up all night waiting for me?!" I can't keep the incredulity from my voice, and see the guilt in his eyes.

"You're not hunting again without me, ever," he says, voice low and rough. Scared. For me, Dean was scared for me.

"I'm fine, okay? Chill out, Dean. God, go to bed, c'mon, let's go." He's already fading. Dragging his arm over my shoulders, I sigh. "You were pacing the whole damn time weren't you?" When he won't even meet my eyes, "I can just ask Bobby."

"Shut up." But he's already dragging his feet, and I'm not sure he's gonna make it to the bed. Heaving him up into my arms, he protests, feebly batting at me before he's completely asleep.

"Please don't remember this tomorrow," I mutter, walking past Bobby as he gives me a look. It's one of those 'we need to talk' looks. I hate those. Depositing Dean in his bed, I pull the covers up. He's been going around barefoot, too lazy to mess with shoes. It's not like we really let him leave the house anyway. And when he messes around in the back with the cars, there's not much he's going to step on and hurt himself with. And he doesn't go that far. We're more worried about him getting a real sunburn this time. But hell, maybe he wouldn't be so damn pale, it's really weird. Not that we're ever tan, being hunters, but he's almost clear he's so white. It's something I never fail to point out to him every chance I get, in response to comments about my hair. Looking at him for a few minutes, it's good to see him looking peaceful in his sleep for once. Flicking the lamp on, before I can retreat to the kitchen Dean starts mumbling in his sleep. Probably from having stressed himself out so bad. "Damnit Dean," I can't just leave him. Looking at the door, Bobby's there.

"Sam."

"Hey Bobby." I feel the need to thank him, for what I don't know. I mean, there're too many things to ever thank him for. Giving us a home. Helping take care of Dean, hell loving us like his own. Loving Dean, no matter how much of a jerk he's being. Loving me, because Dad might have, but Bobby's better at showing it.

"Here, I'll get something for you to drink," he says, not wanting to be around if Dean gets bad. It hurts too much, I think. I can barely take it. We sort of trade off, dealing with it. Hesitantly, I reach out and smooth Dean's hair. He'll wake up, probably scared or upset. Both, I guess part of fear is upset. I'm so tired, I can't deal with this now.

"Hey Dean, don't do this now, c'mon man. Tomorrow, okay? Tomorrow you can dream whatever you want to, okay? Just not now. Please. I'm too tired." Like I get a choice. Or like he has any control over any of this. Like he had any control over himself when he went and made that damned deal. He never had a chance, not after going his whole life knowing that his wasn't worth anything without mine. That's what Dad did. But he loved us, I know he did. But it's Dad Dean's talking to, and that's always the worst. Unless it's Mom. It's almost like he can see them, or they're responding. Sometimes he begs, he just wants Dad to take him, too. Or just wants to see Mom again, please, can't she just…can't he just see her? And it makes my throat tighten and my eyes water, and I want to wake him up, but he won't. I'm so scared when he's like that, like he won't wake up, and I'll never get him back, like he's really seeing them wherever they are, and he's going to go be with them. I can't handle that. "Dean, wake up, please." Don't leave me alone. Shaking his shoulder doesn't work, but I can't stop myself. "Please man, just wake up. Don't do this." Don't do this to yourself Dean. Shaking his shoulder again, I know it's not going to help. I just have to wait it out. And it's the waiting that kills me.

"Here," Bobby says, pushing a beer into my hand.

"Thanks." I take a breath, "For everything."

"You boys're like family." Nodding my head, I take a deep swig of the beer, half wondering if Bobby put holy water in it. Ever since I was possessed the one time he's been extra paranoid. Wondering if I should ask if having Dean's tattoo redone, would it help him? It's not like he's being possessed, but he's sure as hell being haunted. But it'd hurt, and the last thing my brother needs is more pain in his life.

"Didn't love us anyway, did you?" Dean mutters, twisting in his sleep.

"No, Dean, Dad loved us!" Damnit Dean! Damnit Dad! I hear Bobby's soft and almost ritualistic 'damnit John' to my side. "Dean, you remember? We were on a hunt, well _we_ weren't. You were maybe twelve, right? You're the one who remembers all the stories Dean, not me. But, Dad couldn't leave us in a motel room, not again, so he was taking us 'camping' and I know how much you love camping," I say, twisting the word 'love'…if there's anything Dean hates more than rats, it's camping. "And we were, you'n me, we were gonna sit around a campfire, salt ringed and those anasazi symbols, and we were climbing up, hiking I guess, to get there. And you kept falling further and further behind, and Dad thought it was because of me. 'Cause you were helping me, but I wasn't moving that slow. So Dad just pulled me up piggy back. And he pulled you up the shorter outcroppings, and you kept clutching at your stomach, and he'd turn around and you'd try to speed up and move faster, and act like you weren't hurt. But he knew something was up, and figured maybe you were just winded. Or you'd eaten too much or something, y'know? Because you did that once or twice, you were always starving yourself to make sure I had enough food, because you're an idiot, and then when Dad was back you'd eat so much you practically put yourself into a food coma." I don't know if he hears me or not, but he's gone quiet. He's still sweating and moving around a little, but he's not thrashing around or anything. "And so, when we got up to the flat place Dad figured we could make camp at, and he was setting up the fire, you curled into a ball, you couldn't help yourself. You were almost in tears, Dean, and Dad asked what was wrong, and you said you were fine. He was so pissed at you for lying to him. But you had started crying, you hurt so bad. And you were so scared he'd be mad at you. You weren't crying 'cause you were in pain, that would have made sense. You were mad at yourself, frustrated. Ashamed, because you always thought there was something wrong with being human, Dean. We killed things that weren't, I never got why you wanted to be different from what we fought to save. I'll never get it. But Dad, he had you in his arms, trying to figure out what was wrong, and you were just clutching your stomach. He figured it out, lucky you, we were down that mountain so fast, you were fine. God, he sat by you the whole time after you were out of surgery, just messing with your hair. You were so out of it from the drugs, I don't think you remember. He was fidgeting with his wedding ring, messing with the sheets. Man, he was beating himself up the same way you do all the time. And I didn't know what to do. So I crawled up next to you on the bed, and stayed there, because I didn't know how to make you feel better. I'd never seen you on morphine before. Or whatever it was they gave you. But man, you…and Dad was so worried. Don't you remember any of that?" I can see a slit of green, and I'm not sure if he's faking sleep or trying to wake up. "He wanted you out of the hospital so bad he couldn't function, he forgot all about the hunt for you. And you, you felt guilty. Never occurred to you he loved you, you were just upset that Dad didn't go on a hunt. Didn't kill that thing. You never got it, Dean. Yeah, he was a real bastard, no, he didn't treat us right, man, but he loved you. Okay? Not just me, he loved you a hell of a lot, too." Pushing himself up weakly, Dean looks at me, and I can't begin to describe his face, but it scares me. How raw he looks, open. So willing to believe anything I say. I know I'd better be careful, because if I say the wrong thing…it scares me, knowing that the wrong words could completely destroy Dean.

"You remember that time in the park? I was five, and we were just playing. Well, I was, and you were watching over me. You'd climbed on top of the monkey bars, watching over me. And I was going from the slide to the swings, and some bigger kid knocked me over, and you came charging. Hit the ground running, threw yourself onto that guy swinging at him. Then all his friends came and whaled on you. I mean, they'd pulled you off and they were kicking you. It was like a gang fight, and man, I was screaming at the top of my lungs. Tried pulling one of them off you, but he flung me, made you more pissed. You were on your feet, launching yourself that guy before they had you down again. You were bleeding everywhere, ended up curled in a ball to protect yourself, figured they'd stop and you could come after 'em. And Dad came over, scattered them like flies, you remember that? Just brushed 'em aside and picked you up but your collar, setting you on your feet. Both eyes black, split lip, bloody nose, bruises rising up on your cheeks and jaw, and you stared Dad down, daring him to punish you. He looked at you, and asked what happened. You said 'they hurt Sammy, so I was trying to do my job.' And he shook his head, couldn't believe you. Saw I'd fallen down, had tears on my cheeks, I thought they were going to kill you. Their moms were all running over, wondering what Dad was doing. Hadn't been paying attention to their own damn kids. Saw what you looked like, got so mad at their own kids. Screaming at them. Dad picked me up to make me stop crying, before he looked you over. Said 'c'mon,' and took you by the hand, took you over to the car. Tried to clean you up with his handkerchief. One of the moms –not one of those kids, but a different one, she had a little girl, she'd been coming over to split up the fight same time as Dad, and she had a first aid kit and she lent it to Dad so he could patch you up. He started to yell at you for being stupid, and she took up your case, and Dad…he let it go. You knew he was still pissed at you though. And you knew it was wrong to go at these guys. They were bigger'n you, more of them. But you didn't care. Hell Dean you've never cared what happened to you! And that's what Dad was angry about. Not that you'd gotten into a fight. He was furious you were too stupid to make sure you wouldn't get hurt. You had him so scared it was insane, and I don't think you realized how scared he was for you. I didn't. But you've told those stories so many times Dean. You're our family, you remember everything, all those things that happened when we were kids. But you can't seem to remember how much Dad loved you." He sort of starts to come to a little more.

"Hey Dean…we botherin' you?" Bobby asks gently.

"hnuh? No…" he mumbles. Looks so dazed all of a sudden.

"Here why don't you lie back down."

"Were you guys sitting there watching me sleep?" he mumbles, but lies down all the same. "That's just creepy. Don't you have a television? Y'never know, Oobi might be on."

"Oobi?" Bobby asks.

"There was this kid show…dunno, but after a hunt I just flipped the TV on and there the…whatever the hell it was on screen. We ended up watching the whole thing, and neither one of us can figure out why. But it was like an acid trip," I explain, regretting the words the moment they come out, given the way Bobby looks at me. "Watch it sometime, you can't tear your eyes away." Dean eyes me.

"Oobi mistake," he grins.

"Yeah, Oobi mistake," I say, finding myself grinning in response. _The Soup_ did a pretty great thing about Oobi. Then again, no way am I mentioning that to Bobby. In fact the look of disgust Bobby's giving us both makes me smile. Dean chuckles, catching a look at Bobby's face he bursts into helpless laughter, and I find myself grinning, before I start to chuckle, too. It's reasons like this that family's important. It's the way Dean laughs like a little kid, just open and innocent somehow. For all it's his voice, that deep laugh. The one I'm so used to, not hearing it has been one of the hardest things. Not seeing Dean smile, even that evil grin of his that tells me I'm so screwed when I wake up… He's been so out of it. I'd swear he was smoking something when we weren't looking, but, then he's lucid.

--

I'm too tired to be having this conversation. But does it matter anymore? I'll do whatever they want, push myself as hard as I can. I'll do whatever it takes. Always have, always will. Panting, I sit up again, pleased that my arms don't shake, as I swing my legs over the side of the bed. I'm still dressed. Not that it matters, I half remember Sam picking me up, but I also remember walking, so I'm not sure what actually happened. Sam's been dragging me around a lot as of late. But I'll be ready for the next hunt. I'm not sitting this one out, I did it once, and it was worse. I don't care if I have to sit in the car the whole damn time, I'm going. Grinning at Sam, his hair's all flopped in his face. Rubbing sweat off my forehead, I'm a little surprised. Then again, I've been having all sorts of nightmares. So I guess I'm not actually surprised.

"Sam…"

"What?" he looks all concerned.

"Dude, there's…it's…like…alive…"

"What?"

"There's a -I'm not joking- there's a spider on your friggin' head."

"That's so not funny."

"No, Sam, Dean's not joking. Hold still."

"You hit me, and I'll kill you both."

"I'm gonna get a jar and we'll put it in there."

"Are you kidding me?" Sam snaps. I grin.

"Maybe! You'll just have to wait until Bobby gets back, but the stupid thing probably thinks your hair is a fine lady friend for him." Sam takes a swing at me, and dislodges the spider, knocking it onto his lap. I pull away, I don't want it crawling on me. I get enough of 'em down my shirt when we're crawling around musty attics and abandoned buildings, and spider bites hurt.

"Bobby!"

"Keep yer shirt on, I'm coming," he snaps, before coming in, and seeing the spider's new location. "You're on your own, Sam," he says, handing Sam the jar. Sam manages to scoop the thing into the jar, sticking the lid on quickly. Holding up so we can all see it, the sucker's about the size of a silver dollar. Not including the legs. Sam pushes it at me, and I jerk away, before getting annoyed.

"I wasn't scared of it!" I snap, when he starts to laugh. "Just didn't expect you to shove something in my face!" Then I look at Bobby, who's grinning at me, and I figure it's okay. "Dude, maybe it laid eggs in your hair. You're gonna be a daddy." It's worth the look on Sam's face, and him tossing the jar to me. I barely manage to catch it.

"Man, sorry…"

--

It's so weird, Dean looks downright pleased with himself.

"Sam, I caught it." It takes me a few seconds to process it. Then he looks at Bobby. "Now can I have a beer?"

"No." Before Dean and Bobby can get into an argument, I figure it's my turn to place peacekeeper.

"Dude, now I gotta shower. Even if you're wrong, I feel disgusting. Thanks Dean." He smiles brightly.

"Glad I could help!"

"I could kill you."

"Go ahead and try it!" But he's still smiling, so I'm not too worried yet.

"Yeah, we'll see."

"Chicken."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

"Both of you shut up! Sam go shower, Dean go back to bed."

"What am I, five-?" Dean and I start in unison, before staring at each other. Okay, Bobby wins, we both decide. I leave the room, as does Bobby a few minutes after me, carrying the spider-in-a-jar. Rubbing at my face, I hope all the immaturity came from exhaustion, not regression. But whatever, Bobby doesn't actually seem to mind. Grabbing clean clothes, I head into the bathroom and strip down to shower. It doesn't take long, considering the hunt wasn't too bad, and I'm already too tired to take forever. And there's no point in using the hot water up now, it won't annoy Dean any. And that just takes all the fun out of it.

_You, me, dad, I want us to be together again, I want us to be a family again_.

_Dean we _are_ a family and I'd do anything for you, but things will never be the way they were before._

_They could be…_

_I don't want them to be. I'm not gonna live this life forever. Dean, when this is all over, you're gonna have to let me go my own way._

_Sam, look, the three of us, that's all we have, and it's all I have. Sometimes I feel like I'm barely holding it together, man. Without you or Dad…_

I wake up shaking, covered in sweat. There's only one thought in my head. Staggering to the bathroom I drop to my knees and vomit. I can't take it. Rubbing at my forehead, I sigh, wondering how long I've been here. A minute? Five? I push myself up. Guess I'm done paying tribute to the porcelain god. Looking in the mirror, I look like crap. But, my skin's fine. I was out long enough. I walk into the kitchen, looking at the softly glowing display over the oven. 4 a.m. Of which day, I don't know. Maybe I've only been asleep a few hours. Or hell, maybe the clock's wrong. Either way. I stumble back into my room, trying to find the easy grace I used to have. I don't want anyone waking up. Dragging out some fresh clothes, I head back into the bathroom to shower. Don't have any soap, though. Picking up Sam's shampoo, I look at it. I'll just use the hand soap, I don't want to smell like citrus or whatever the hell this crap is. Taking a sniff just in case, I'm really sure I don't want to smell like that. I am a _guy_, after all. Stripping down and stepping into the shower, it takes a few minutes for the water to heat up, and I'm tempted to just let the ice water run over me anyway. The moment it's warm I flip the whatever-the-hell-you-call-it and the spray of the shower hits me. Rinsing the sweat off my body, I use the soap bar to clean my hair, and the rest of me. Soon as I'm done, I turn the water off. No point in taking forever. The longer I stay in there, more likely someone is to catch me and get mad. Dunno why they're worried, I won't scrub my skin off again. Honest. Don't get why they're so antsy about everything, it's driving me insane. Swear to god I'm gonna run off with a stripper or something just to spite them. Didn't some guy in the bible marry a whore because God said to? Wonder what Sam would think of that. Tugging on boxers and jeans, I have my shirt in hand as I walk out of the bathroom, using a towel to dry my hair.

"Hey Sam," he gives me the once over with his eyes. I knew he was out here. Dunno how, but I knew. Figured he might as well see for himself I didn't hurt myself any. Because I'm okay. If I punch him will he figure out that I'm okay? Chrissakes.

"Hey Dean."

"What the hell you doing up so late?"

"Bobby and I were talking about another hunt a few states over."

"Great, I'll grab my gear, let's go. I'll even let you drive." I wanna drive. Don't think he'll let me. I tug my shirt on. Also don't think he'll let me come. But like hell that's gonna stop me.

"Dean you're not coming. That's what we were talking about."

"Oh, I get it. Trying to find a babysitter for me? Sam I've been taking care of you since I was four. I'm not the one who needs taking care of here. And I'm coming."

"If you come, you're not leaving the car."

"Fine. I'm driving."

"If your driving is anywhere near as bad as your walking…" he mutters, guess he figures he's quiet enough I can't hear.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothin'." Okay, we can play that game.

"I'm coming, and you're not gonna stop me."

"Dean you're afraid of the dark!"

"And you aren't!? We know what's out there!" I know what he means. But I don't plan on sleeping during a hunt. I can't do that, and I can't keep staying behind, it hurts too much. I just want things to be normal. Please Sam, let me pretend things are normal. Even if I'm just riding shotgun.

"You know that's not what I'm talking about!"

"What the hell does it matter, Sam!? I'm not gonna be sleeping on a hunt! That's your job." His face turns red, and I can't help but feel a certain amount of satisfaction.

"Are you ever going to let that go!? I'm _sorry_!"

"Yeah? Tell that to 50 stitches!" I wish I hadn't said it, but all the same I can't seem to stop saying things like that to Sam. "Dude…I'm sorry. Just, don't think you're leaving without me again."

"Sick of sleeping in chairs?" he retorts savagely.

"Okay, I deserved that. Now grow up!"

"Why don't you grow up Dean?! You're the older one!"

"What does that have to do with anything!? The only thing about being older is that I'm always right!" Good thing Bobby's not around, or he'd pull a Moe and clunk our heads together. And I don't think mine can survive close encounters of a third kind with Sam's. He says I'm the one with a thick skull, but who always ends up with the concussion? Whiny little bitch.

--

Two days later I find myself driving with Dean in the passenger's seat, refusing to look at me. He's promised to stay in the car, and I'm going to put a ring of salt around it. He's pissed as hell, but he's happy enough that Bobby'n I are letting him come. Like we could honestly stop him if he really set his mind to it. Dean could give Houdini a run for his money. He's mastered the great escape. Which is why he's sitting next to me, clearly exhausted and trying to stay awake. Bobby still won't let him have coffee. Just because Bobby figures that since the doctors said Dean's body was like brand new, I guess Bobby figures we can't let Dean mess it up. Or else like babies shouldn't have caffeine, and I guess that's sort of how we've been treating Dean. Which isn't fair, but he's the one who wakes up crying.

"We're here. And you promised." I look at him, making him meet my eyes. "You promised, Dean."

"And I always keep my word!" he snaps, upset. As always. I can't wait until he's not so touchy again. Then, I have no clue how much of it is my fault. I'm trying to do what Bobby says and give him his space and stuff, it just doesn't seem to work. Whenever I start to back off Dean just latches on and I can't. It's not like I'm trying to ditch him, just take a few steps back. I'll always be there. I just wish he'd figure that out for a change. Because no matter how many times I tell him, he can't seem to believe me. And I know that Stanford messed him up good, but I told him to come with me. And I know that's not good enough, but I wanted him to come. I did. I'd have done anything to keep him with me. Just, not in the same room night after night after night after night. It gets a little old.

"I'll be back soon, I already know what I'm looking for, okay?" I force a smile. It's just a simple talisman, something the spirit was super attached to in life, and as soon as I torch the stupid thing, it'll be gone. No hassle, compared to some hunts. In fact, if things were normal, Dean might be at a bar right now letting me handle this one alone. I walk out into the night, looking up and setting up the salt ring around the car like I said I would. I'm tempted to add some symbols for protection, or to draw on the trunk again, but I think I've pushed Dean far enough tonight. My task done, I smile and wave at him, getting the one finger salute in reply.

--

I watch Sam's back fade into the darkness as he heads around to the back of the house. It hurts to watch him walk away. Swallowed into the blackness. But my eyes see fairly well in the dark. Better than I remember. But, he's out of view. It's where the cellar doors are, or whatever, and he's gonna go in that way, makes less of a mess. And the doors are old anyway, and he thinks that's where the talisman is. I wanna turn the car on, but I said I'd keep it off. The engine purrs, and just because I like it doesn't mean the neighborhood needs to be alerted. Although if driving up didn't alert anyone, sitting with the car idling isn't going to, either. I want the lights for the car on, it's dark out. Looking around, I try to keep myself calm. You're safe Dean. Nothing's gonna come after you. Just 'cause it's dark out doesn't mean that anything bad's going to happen.

Dunno how long I'm sitting here, waiting for him to come back. Thought this was gonna be quick Sammy. God, you just ditchin' me? That it? I woulda stayed back with Bobby if I knew you really wanted me gone this badly.

Then there's something out there, in front of the car. I freeze, not because I want to avoid detection, it definitely sees me, I'm just paralyzed, its staring at me. Hard to tell if it's male or female from here. Considering the thing is trapped outside the salt circle. Circles keep out the devil, because there are no corners, and salt is always protection. Always. Hell the SALT talks were meant to protect us from the U.S.S.R., right? Then again I don't think anyone else in history class found that amusing. Sam did, but he was a freshman. Didn't do me any good. But it tilts its head to the side, and I want to retch, it's like there're no bones, or they're broken as the head flops around on the thin shoulders. I can feel my stomach churn, but I can't move. I know there's a knife, consecrated iron underneath the seat I'm sitting on, because I put it there, and never bothered to tell Sam about it because I never figured he'd need it. So it's been a few years, but it's probably still there, considering I don't think it came loose, and I never found it. But I can't move. It's just staring at me, those empty eyes looking at me. And it's not like it wants to kill me, it doesn't know what to make of me. Dunno if it's the salt, or the car, or what, but it's just staring at me. Staring like it's not sure if I'm a friend or with the other guy. Is Sam hurt? My heart rate goes up, and I figure I'm gonna hyperventilate, but I can't stop myself, either. Breathe Dean, breathe! But I can't slow it down, and it's just staring. The wind picks up, I can see the branches on the trees moving. Sam? Was Sam hurt? Did the thing hurt my brother!? Why's it out here? Holding out a hand, it starts walking boneless, towards me in slowly wrenching steps. Fingertips splayed out, reaching for me. There's salt, it can't. It shouldn't be able to…unless it blew it all away. Its arm outstretched, the hand is open, and I can't move. My mouth's gone dry, and my tongue's like sandpaper stuck to the roof of my mouth. All I want to do is get out of the car and attack this thing, make it pay for whatever happened to Sam. It steps into the Impala, from the front, walking down the hood to me, arm outstretched. I can't even move further back in my seat. Goddamn it Dean! MOVE! Then the thing slowly starts to fade away, disappearing in flames from the feet up to its shoulders, then its head, then down the arm, its fingers less than an inch from my chest before they're gone, too. Gasping and panting, guess Sam got it. He comes running out of the house, and the moment I see him, I'm freed from the paralysis. I've never panicked like that before, and it's all I can do to stumble away from the car to vomit in the bushes. Not that I ate that much today in the first place today. Too nervous and tense to eat. Pathetic, but I usually get hyped up before a hunt.

--

Couldn't see Dean, but the salt was gone. It's not that hard to see something white like that when it's dark out, because usually we're somewhere out of the city and there's always a bright moon or stars. "Dean?" When he shoots out of the car, I half expect he's going to be coming at me, for whatever reason. Instead he leaves the door open and stumbles away from the car. "Dean, you okay?" Did that thing get him? The salt's blown out of the circle formation, I can see. Scattered everywhere. Great. Might as well go make sure he's okay.

--

Sam reaches his brother's side, gripping his shoulder and waiting for the dry heaving to stop. "Hey there man," Sam says gently, slipping his arms under his brother's and hauling him up. "You okay, Dean?" he asks quietly, not panicked like he usually is when he asks. The tears on Dean's face unsettle him, but Sam knows when he heaves his guts up, his eyes water, too, so it's not fair to assume anything. "Hey dude, just say something okay?" Dean leans into Sam's hold, hiding his face in his brother's jacket.

"Did you use me as bait?"

"What? No! Dean I never use you as bait!" the indignation in Sam's voice settles Dean, as he allows the fear to wash over and through him, trying to calm down. Sam notices his brother's distress, "Okay, Dean, breathe. Just breathe in and out. Calm down. You're okay. What the hell, you look like you saw a ghost." Not the 'oh, hey thing to hunt' kind of ghost, more the 'oh god it's my dead grandma and she blames me for hiding her dentures' kind of ghost. Dean weakly punches Sam with the side of his fist, not that he can get much force behind it at such a close range, but he starts breathing more evenly before the breaths turn to sobs.

--

For once, I'm not fighting it. I don't care anymore if Sam sees me crying. I'm too tired to care, and I don't even know why I'm this upset. Okay, so I do. I couldn't hunt. Couldn't move. All I had wanted was to get back in the saddle…car. Back in the car and do the things we used to. Like saving people and hunting things. I don't want to be sitting behind playing research-monkey. I don't want to try and get a job and act like a civilian. I know how that turns out, for all it was so hard to leave. But if I gave up hunting now, it wouldn't do me any good. Wouldn't bring Mom back, wouldn't give me an awesome girlfriend, and certainly wouldn't give Sam Jess back. Not going to do us any good if I work as a mechanic. I mean, I guess Sam could use the money, but I don't want that. I gave up my dreams a long time ago, and it's too late to try and reclaim them. Way too late. And honestly? I'm okay with this life. This is who I am, who I've been trained to be. This is just what my life is, and for once, it's me making that choice, and I can live with it.

But it scares me the way that thing looked at me. Way I couldn't move, I was just dead weight and if Sam hadn't timed things right, I couldn't do a thing to save myself. I'm a liability to him on a hunt. Thought I was getting stronger again, still knew how to push past the fear that comes from facing one of those things down. But I couldn't. It just felt so wrong to me, everything about it was wrong, and it froze me.

--

Sam feels something different about the way Dean's crying. It's calmer, like he's given into it, decided there's no point in fighting it. And in many ways, it's not the same sobs from before, the ones that threatened to rip his brother to shreds. It ends quicker, too, with Sam quietly trying to shush him, trying to remember what Dean did when they were little and he was scared and upset. How Dean used to calm him down before Dad got back, or noticed. Making weird faces wasn't exactly an option in this case, but still. He seemed to remember something about Dean lightly making circles on his back, and figured it couldn't hurt. Worst that happened was Dean pushed away.

"Did it touch you?" Sam asked quietly.

"No," Dean whispered, but Sam knew it'd come close, if nothing else.

"Well you're okay, yeah?"

"Yeah," Dean said with a shudder.

"Hey, lets go get some coffee or something, okay?"

"Yeah, sounds good," Dean said wearily before pushing away from Sam and straightening his jacket. Sam lightly ruffled Dean's hair before Dean's arm came up in a gentle sweep, knocking Sam's arm away. "I'm driving," Dean said, holding up the keys he'd filched from Sam's pocket when he'd finished crying but hadn't shoved away yet. Shaking his head and rolling his eyes Sam threw his hands up.

"Fine, but dude, go the speed limit."

"You know more crashes occur at slower speeds? Because when people are speeding they're more aware of their surroundings and they have a better reaction time?"

"I hate you sometimes."

"Love you, too."

"Let's go." Dean slid into the Impala, hands smoothing gently over the wheel and dash.

"Hey baby," he said with a grin in Sam's direction, wondering about his brother's reaction. Considering after Dean'd rebuilt the Impala Sam'd been shameless in his mockery of Dean's relief and pleasure in having his car back.

"I swear…if this thing could talk, too…." Sam let the sentence hang. Dean lightly pushed the key into the ignition, before starting the car, letting his eyes close at the sound of the engine roaring to life. Opening his eyes he grinned and put the car in drive, minding the speed limit, considering Sam's half panicked state at letting his brother drive.

"Stop staring at me like that."

"Well what else'm I supposed to look at Dean?"

"The road?!" Dean leaned over, grabbing his box of cassettes. Looking at them and then the road he decided to go with Foreigner. He was just in the mood for something a little more upbeat like "Hot Blooded" which he always thought was funny, considering "Cold as Ice" was the other big hit. He doesn't recognize the letters, but he does recognize the covers on the tapes. The letters don't make sense to him, can't read. Ignoring Sam, "Which coffee place?" He sees a sign, but he's not sure what the words say, looks like a Starbucks, but he's not sure.

"Starbucks. Where have you been the past century? God Dean…I'd swear you've lived under a rock your whole life."

"And yet I'm still cooler than you'll ever be."

"Here's on right here, turn here."

"I know how to drive Sam! It's not like something you can forget how to do. Push the gas down and turn the wheel! Little kids can drive Sam."

"Most can't reach the pedals." The look Dean shot Sam could have peeled paint.

"I know you're seen those little cars they have for kids. And all sorts of video games now that are driving games with the pedals and crap."

"Doesn't mean a kid could drive a car."

"Well I sure as hell did. Dad slid the seat forward and let me drive." Dean didn't mention that it had been when their father was too injured to drive or even really move. Didn't mention it was when their Dad needed Dean to take care of Sam and transport them when he abandoned them for a hunt. Figured he could make it seem like Dad had been teaching him, make it sound better. Didn't mention how terrified he'd been that their dad was going to die those times, and that blood had been everywhere. Or mention that it had been Dean driving their father to a hospital, leaving Sam in the motel room asleep. Hurt too much to begin to tell the truth. There were some memories Dean wasn't ready to share, or make peace with yet. Dean pulled into the parking lot parking neatly, better than Sam most of the time, hating the darkness and just wanting out of the car. Pulling the keys from the ignition he locked his door, the back ones were always locked, watching Sam lock his door as they both closed their doors in unison, making Sam grin. They used to try and time it, like a game, when they were younger. Now it was just a bit of a habit, but it'd been a year since Sam'd heard the steady thud of the doors closing together.

"You know what you want?" Sam asked.

"I can order for myself," Dean replied irritably, still shaken from his experience. His words still blurred together at times, especially when he wasn't working on annunciating them.

"Don't get straight coffee. Okay? And don't tell Bobby." Dean grinned at his brother. "No caffeine, either!"

"I'm not stupid." Looking up at the board with all the different coffees up on it, he couldn't read a single word of it. The letters, he knew how to say the alphabet, just, he couldn't connect the sounds with their physical appearance. It could have been in hieroglyphics for all it mattered to him. "Uh, I'll have a mocha, uh de-caff, please," Dean mumbled to the barista. The mumbling helped hide the way his words sometimes didn't match his thoughts. Trying to remember how to deal with people besides Bobby and Sam. He didn't really consider hospital staff to be 'people' they stabbed him with poky things all the time and made his body hurt. They didn't count. For all they'd saved his life loads of times, too. It didn't matter, or they figured he wasn't mentally stable, which he found upsetting.

"And I'll have…" Sam glanced at the remaining treats, "a chocolate chip cookie," he grinned at the woman. "And…" looking up at the drink list, "how about a low fat extra whip white chocolate mocha?" Then belatedly added a quick "please." Then looked at Dean and asked, "Dude, you hungry?"

"No, I'm good."

"Well that's it for us," Sam said happily, handing over cash to the woman, getting a five back in change. Turning his back to go sit with Dean in one of the comfier chairs by the fireplace, Sam heard the woman mutter to the other barista, 'shame they're both gay, huh?' Sam turned around, tempted to yell at them. Instead, "So, how're you doing?"

"Sam, stop babying me. You're _my_ baby brother, not the other way around." Dean bit the words off with a casual snap, letting his voice get loud enough to be heard by the two women. Johnny Cash was playing softly in the background, and Dean let his eyes close. The fire scared him, but it was warm, and he didn't want to admit to Sam that it was upsetting. Choosing to ignore it, and to try and ignore the shadows cast on the walls and everything else, he turned his chair so it wasn't facing the fireplace.

"One mocha…" Dean got up before Sam could, thanking the woman. She gave him a look. Deciding instantly she was too old for him, Dean didn't return the look, acting oblivious, before returning to the chair and settling into it. Letting the warmth of the coffee through the cup heat his hands, he watched Sam before Sam got up to get his cookie and drink.

"Want some?" Sam asked, offering his cookie to Dean.

"No, I'm good, thanks." It brought back some memories of Sam trying to offer him food when Dean was trying so hard to not eat so Sam could have enough.

"Dean, you gotta eat something, okay?"

"Yeah, but can't it wait? I'll have breakfast when we get to Bobby's."

"Promise?"

"You really doubt my word that much you gotta make me promise you?"

"Sorry."

"No. Dude, sorry. I just…" Dean didn't finish, instead taking a sip of the warm coffee, feeling it spread to a pleasant warmth in his belly. Curling deeper into the chair, he let his attention wander, doing his best to ignore the damn fire. Sam let it go, simply enjoying the chocolate chips. They were so the best part, but Dean liked the actual cookie better, usually. Which was funny to both of them, but whatever. It was the texture over the flavor any day, though. Although he'd eat things like beef jerky and slim jims. So, there was that. Sam held out a small part of the cookie he'd broken off, giving Dean his best puppy dog eyes.

"It's really good," he offered. Rolling his eyes, Dean accepted the offering, popping it into his mouth and chewing slowly. It was good. But he didn't want any more. It was fine. But he wasn't keen on eating after he'd been dry heaving. Trying hard to read the words on the sleeve of the cup, or simply on the cup itself, he found he couldn't even recognize the letter 'a'.

"You okay?"

"Huh? Yeah. Sorry." Dean shook his head to clear it. He figured at least maybe he had a legitimate excuse to get out of researching. He'd always hated it anyway. And reading had never been all that easy to do anyway. It wasn't like he read slow, it had just taken forever to learn in the first place. Constantly switching schools and everything else had just led to Dean struggling to keep up, when he would have been fine in a stationary environment. Sam had been able to rely on Dean and Dean hadn't had anyone. Your baby brother can't help you with your homework if he can't even stay awake through a whole day, or sleep through the night. Forget talk or walk. Either way he's trying to suppress the rising panic of the knowledge he can't do something he's been able to do for as long as he can remember. Even if the first books he was able to read were things like Dr Seuss. One fish two fish…it was annoying in high school to find out that some of Dr Seuss's books had been written as a social commentary. For instance the _Butter Battle Book_? Cold War. _The Lorax_ was a blatant commentary on corporations and the environment. Dean had never figured out what _Horton Hears a Who_ was really about, but it was dedicated to Seuss's friend in Japan, and the little tower the Whos ran around on looked an awful lot like the Eiffel tower…and given France needed a lot of protection during world war two…oh, and not to mention the further aggravating fact that the goddamn vulture's name was Vlad Vladistock, who was one of the Russians responsible for a lot of really bad shit that went down. It totally ruined kids books for Dean in a whole new way. Sam of course, had thought it was interesting. Dean liked the one about the bird, where she took a whole buncha pills and got sick. Reminded him of Amy Winehouse. Considering the bird didn't want the doctor called to help her not take the pills anymore. But he couldn't remember how to read the words.

Sam was going to find out, he knew it. Just knew it, and that was what upset him. If he could avoid anyone noticing, that would be one thing. But, if it was going to come back to bite him, he didn't want anything to do with it. Both men finished their drinks and stood up smoothly together, Dean allowing Sam to have the keys so that he could sleep on the way back.

Watching his brother sleep from the corner of his eye, Sam remembered when he'd been little, and had fallen asleep in the car, head on his brother's lap. Or the few times Dean had been sick, and their dad had let Dean sleep up in the front, his head on their dad's leg, a blanket over his body curled up on the seat. They reached Bobby's, Dean barely awake, and they both went to bed, no mention of the hunt, despite Bobby's curious glances.

_(as you all should know by now, reviews to continue? please?)_


	16. Chapter 15: See Who I Am

_(Three more chapters to go. Sorry it took me so long to update. Um, I'm having my wisdom teeth removed tomorrow. So I have no idea what condition I will be in when and if I respond to the couple reviews I get. If I get any. As per usual, thanks to Mish, a very patient beta. dedicated to my friend...I don't know what happened two or three years ago, but ever since then I've been her fanfic writing bitch) _

**Chapter 15: See Who I Am **

Quietly reading the Sunday paper, Sam chuckled, reading about some idiot who'd managed to get his hand stuck in the ATM slot. Passing Dean the paper, "check it out," he grinned. Dean looked at it, trying desperately to read the words, before looking up and grinning at Sam.

"Yeah, that's hilarious," he said. His words came out clear, finally. It was a relief to all of them, considering how painful it was when Dean had ended up stuttering slightly, or just altogether being unintelligible. He forced a slight chuckle, and passed the paper back, unaware of how pale he'd gone. Which was saying something, considering how pale he already was. But he'd regained some color, spending time outside helping Bobby in the salvage yard. And falling asleep working on putting some car parts back together. Either way Bobby and Sam were just thankful Dean hadn't gotten sunburned, because they'd both figured the moment the sun came out, regardless of where Dean was in relation to it, his skin would turn bright red and start to peel. Fortunately it seemed he was too pale to burn, for whatever reason. It wasn't logical, but their luck had held so far. For which they were all grateful.

"Y'know, I'll never understand people," Sam said with a smile.

"Yeah, what a dumbass," Dean replied uncomfortably.

"You okay?" Bobby asked. Then grinned at Dean, "So what was the article about?"

"Y'know, a real moron."

--

Thankfully for me, Sam interrupts. "Some guy was trying to rip off an ATM, and got his hand stuck in the slot. Cut himself up pretty bad, too," and I burst out laughing, well, it was real this time, at least.

"Dean, you already read it? Just now catching up with it?" Bobby asks me.

"I wasn't awake yet. I'm up now." He's looking at me, and I think he knows. Not only can I not recognize any letters, but they're crawling across the page and making my head hurt. I can't stand it.

"See any interesting obits?" Bobby asks.

"I haven't had a chance to read the paper yet." Stretching, "In fact I'm gonna go out and check up on the Impala."

"Hey Dean?"

Shit. "Yeah?"

"When you're done come find me, okay?"

"Yeah Bobby, you know I will." Heading out to the back, I kick a hunk of metal across the dirt, frustrated. "Damnit!" Sinking into the dirt with my back against the tire near the passenger seat, I can't think. What'm I gonna do? And why does it bug me so much? I can learn again, right? I learned how once, should be easier to re-learn. Rubbing at my eyes, shouldn't've kicked the stupid thing, kicked up dirt too, and now it's all in my eyes. Can't hide out here forever from Bobby. Especially because Sam has the keys to the Impala, and Bobby lives here. I am so screwed. Pushing myself back up, Bobby's sitting alone pouring over some demonology book.

"Where's Sam?"

"Upstairs."

"Oh. Okay," I turn to go upstairs after my brother. It's a fairly legitimate excuse that requires no explanation. I hope.

"Dean, why don't you come sit down?"

"Uh, y'know, I'd really like to talk to Sam. Somethin' I gotta tell him."

"Can't it wait?" Bobby gives me that look. Shit.

"Yeah. It can wait, I'd just rather tell him before I forget. You know how my memory's been," I shrug and force a laugh.

"Dean." I sit my ass down in the chair, doing my best not to drum my fingers on the tabletop. Shrugging, I don't know what he wants. "Read this to me." He hands me the paper.

"Which part?"

"Anything. The headline." I stare at it for what feels like days, trying to make sense of the images that twist and squiggle across my vision.

"Uh..." there's a picture of a dog, "the importance of fixing your pets?"

"Try 'dog stops robber'."

"Yeah. Just messin' with you. Dunno why you're making me do this."

"Because I think you can't read."

"Bobby, I can read. All those times I've helped with research. Read out exorcisms. Hell, I read that gum package, remember? I can read fine. I just don't see why you're acting so weird. I was just tired this morning. Thassall."

"You realize I don't believe you, right?"

"Yeah." I run my tongue over my lips, trying to moisten them. My mouth's all dry. "I don't know how to prove it to you Bobby."

"Write your own name."

I start laughing, "I can do that. You kidding me?" he passes me a pen, and I pick it up, pulling the paper towards me, figuring I can write on the newspaper margin. Pausing, I can't think. I can spell it; I just can't see what it should look like. "D-e-a-n." I look at Bobby. Nope not good enough. It's not that hard. Four letters, one cap and three lower case. C'mon Dean. Damnit. I can't. I don't know what it's supposed to look like. I can't think. I can't write the letters. Not Sam's name, either. I can spell it just fine. I know what the letters are. I just can't connect them to what they look like. And the damn things on the page keep moving, so I can't try to copy them. Not that I know what they are in the first place. Looking at Bobby, "I can't."

"Damnit Dean."

"I'm sorry!" I'm up on my feet, hands flat on the table. Looking up, Sam's hopefully up there. I need a distraction. And I can't handle the way Bobby's looking at me right now. "Gotta talk to Sam." Heading up the stairs, I don't bother to find Sam, I sink down against the wall to the left of the stairwell. "Damn it. Damn it to hell," I mumble.

"Dean, that you?"

"Yeah! You need any help?"

"Sure. But I don't think you can reach the book, if I can't."

"But I'm lighter, so I can stand on the shelves." He's taller by a couple inches, which means that no matter what, he's going to be heavier, too. Lucky me. Although I'm still working to gain back some of the weight I lost. And the muscle, especially the muscle, which adds weight. God I'm tired. Looking up once I'm in the same room, I glance at a book that probably outweighs Sammy'n me put together. "You want that one?!" Pain in the ass. Stretching up on my tip toes, I can't even touch the top of the shelf, forget the book on top of it. Glancing at the bottom shelf, it's only a few inches up off the ground, and I lightly step up on it, waiting for the whole thing to tip over on me. Sam settles his hands on either side of me, holding the bookshelf in place. Stretching up on tip toes again, I'm taller than Sam, and almost can't resist lording it up, but the idea of being flattened by a whole buncha smelly books curbs my enthusiasm, and I reach up, fingertips brushing the bottom of the book, pushing it up off the shelf and dragging it forward. Once it tips I'll be able to catch it and hand it off to Sam. "Why this one?" I grunt, edging the book forward again. A few more inches, and it starts to tip, and I get my hand around the spine letting it fall forward, and I topple backwards into Sam, and we both hit the ground with a thud.

"I thought you said you were light!"

"Shuttup!" I groan, rolling off Sam. "I got your damn book, didn't I?"

"Yeah but I think you crushed my ribs."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm _so_ sorry."

"Yeah, well you should be." I kick out at him, know I can't hit him from the angle I'm at; I brush the cover off, only to release a cloud of dust that makes me hack up a lung or two. "Christ!" I snap, sneezing a few times. "What the hell Sammy? Why'd you gotta pick this one?"

"Just read the title." Glancing at it, I still can't make heads or tails of it. Son of a bitch. C'mon Dean!

"Sam, it's dusty, and I can't see my eyes are watering, just tell me what it says."

"Bobby was right?"

"What? That I have dust allergies? You knew that, Sam." I sneeze again, I can't help it.

"Dean, I can help you learn how to read again."

"Well maybe I don't want your help, 'cause I don't need your help, 'cause I can read just fine!"

"Then tell me what the title says!"

"I told you I can't see!" It's true, I can't really. Everything's blurry and my eyes sting. Goddamn dust.

"Bullshit Dean!"

--

Looking at him closely, his eyes _are_ all red. Okay, maybe he's not lying, but that doesn't mean Bobby's not right. "Dude, you okay?"

"Yeah. Your ribs aren't very comfortable though. You need to gain some weight or something so you're less uncomfortable. Seriously, no wonder you can't get a girl to sleep with you."

"Dean, we are not having this conversation."

"Y'know Sam? I think I figured it out. Why you won't sleep with girls. Because you don't like them. I shoulda been trying to hook you up with dudes. Awkward, but I mean, you're my brother, and you being flaming gay won't change that. I'll still love ya. After all, don't ask don't tell."

"Dean!"

"What? I strike a nerve!?" I wasn't trying to piss him off. How do we always do this?

"No, you didn't. Now stop being an ass and give me the book." When Dean hands it over, I glance at him, wondering if he's just pretending. No, he doesn't have a clue. It just says Demonology on the cover. Not even in fancy script or anything. I figured the letter 'd' might have stood out to him. It is in his name, after all. But no. "Dean, seriously. It's not a big deal, it's fixable, okay? And I make fun of you for a lot of things, but something like this, you know I wouldn't right?" He licks his lips again, buying himself some time to think.

"Sam, it wasn't all that easy to learn in the first place."

"Dean, you learn things faster than anyone I know."

"You know two people, Sam." I purse my lips in annoyance.

"I know you, Dean, and I grew up with you. You caught onto everything. And got into everything," I add, seeing a grin spread across Dean's face. "God you were a pain in the ass," I add for good measure. "You learn fast. I don't see how this is going to be a set back."

"Actually I was just hoping it would get me out of having to do research."

The look on his face is so genuinely innocent, I have a hard time getting annoyed with him. "Seriously Dean!?"

"Well, yeah!"

"I don't know what I'm going to do with you."

"Stop treating me like a baby?" I shake my head, pinching the bridge of my nose in annoyance. I'm going to kill him, I'm seriously going to kill him, and I can't think of a good reason not to.

"Well maybe if you would stop acting like one, I wouldn't have to treat you like one!" Oh, great Sam. Real mature. Get sucked in like Dean wants. He just wants to fight, and it's going to come to blows. It always comes to blows with us. Of course we are brothers. I think I've heard it's supposed to work that way.

"Well maybe if you'd just leave me alone I wouldn't have to be so annoying!" Another of Dean's defense mechanisms, pissing me off so I go away. Along with the stupid jokes, taking bites of food so big it takes him forever to chew, which means I have to give up on getting an answer…damn. Little annoying things that all together just makes him annoying, not hurting. And I try to understand, I try so damn hard. He just keeps blocking me, pushing me away. Some joke here, another one there, outright yelling at me, I can't get closer. He's got those goddamn walls of his up so high I can't see what's inside of them. When they're not crashing around his ears, at least. Right now I can't tell if they're crashing or he's just building them up higher. I really wanna punch him.

"I'm not doing this."

"Doing what Sam?"

"I'm not going to fight with you just so you can make me forget what we were talking about."

"And what were we talking about Sam?!" his voice's getting rougher and lower. If he takes a swing at me, I'm not sure I can stop myself from punching back. He doesn't look so pathetic anymore. And he's asking for it. And maybe if we can start taking swings at each other again, things'll go back to normal. It won't work, but I'm optimistic. Which is why I need Dean around, to be the voice of reason. Which sounds strange, but it's true. He's actually more levelheaded than I am half the time. It's not like he's ever looking to me for advice.

"We were talking about the fact that you need to be able to read."

"For what?"

"Please tell me you did not just say that."

"I don't read books like you do, and you do all the research anyway."

"And if something happens to me?"

"I'll make another deal!" he says it so quickly, I can tell that he means it. Didn't even have to stop and think. I look down and away from him.

"I'd rather kill you myself."

--

A shiver runs down my spine when Sammy says that. "Don't."

"Don't what Dean?"

"Dude, please don't." I don't know what's in my eyes when I say that, but he backs down instantly.

"Man, I'm sorry. I just…Dean, I can't live through this again. Ever. Alright? If you…if I lose you, that's it. I don't care. I lived without you, okay?! But I'm never doing it again! I don't care who's around, or what, but I'm not going to do it! I won't!"

"Okay! Okay! I'm sorry!"

"Don't be sorry, Dean!" Great, now I've made _him_ cry.

"Well I don't know what you want me to be Sam!"

"You! I just want you to be you!"

"That's what I'm trying to do, and I can't win!"

"I hate doing research alone."

"I hate reading."

"But you could."

"Fine. Whatever. You win." I don't want to argue with him. Especially not when he gets that look in his eye. He looks too much like Dad, and I can't find it in me to keep going. I just can't, and I've tried so hard. I do, and I don't get how he can look at me like that, and I just back down. Especially when all I want to do is slug him and brush past him, and pretend it never happened. Little bitch never lets anything go. "But I don't know how you plan to teach me anything, because I swear to god, Sam, if you bring Spot into this, or Dr. Seuss, I will kill you. After I shave your eyebrows in your sleep, shave half your head, and ducktape your eyes shut, and possibly tie you up on a flag pole somewhere. That descriptive enough for you?"

"God, yes. Okay."

"Or Mother Goose!"

"Dude, I don't even have any kids books! Calm down!"

"Oh. Okay." I guess that's good. And means I don't have to deal with it. "Wait, then what'm I supposed to read?"

"I was thinking the sports pages or something. Or the funnies."

"You mean the _comics_? What are you fifty? God Sam."

"People still call them the funnies, Dean."

"Yeah, and then they go six feet under the next day!"

"Dude, I betcha Bobby calls 'em the funnies."

"Does not."

"Ten bucks."

"I don't have any money Sam. But, hell, since I'm gonna win, you're on."

"What the hell do I get if you lose?"

"Uh…" it takes a few minutes, "I…won't do what I was planning on doing tonight."

"Which was?" his Sammy alert on red.

"Well, I'm not gonna tell you, because if I wanna use the idea later, you won't be prepared."

"You weren't going to run off or something stupid, were you?"

"No, dude, this was between me and you." And the particularly strong glue I found out in the glove compartment of a truck. Oh, and the feathers from all the damn crows.

"Alright. Fair enough, I guess." We both head down the stairs, like little kids at Christmas.

"Hey Bobby, you got the newspaper?"

"Yeah. What part you want? The sports?"

"No, but close."

"The comics?"

"Hah!" I can't help it. "Fork it over. C'mon." Sam presses a ten dollar bill into my hand, and it's so hard not to keep gloating.

"What the hell?" Bobby asks, and I grin at him like an idiot.

"We had a bet." He looks at Sam.

"You coulda told me, and I woulda helped you win." Sam shrugs.

"That's not really fair to Dean though. And it's so easy to make him happy…"

"Bitch!"

"Jerk!"

"Enough! Or take it outside! Sam did you get me that book I asked for."

"It's right here Bobby. Uh, I was thinking Dean and I would go on a drive or something."

"Sounds fine with me. Keep your cell on."

"You got it."

--

I wake up when I hear someone yelling.

"Sam! Please Sam!" is about all I can hear through the walls. It takes a few seconds for my brain to catch up. The drive was long, Dean spaced out a lot, and wouldn't pay much attention to anything I was saying. Which was okay, I was just babbling at him anyway. Eventually he turned up the radio 'cause he couldn't take it anymore, but it took a while. He drove us back. Doing better, it seems.

"Stop, please! I'm sorry, god stop, Sam, I'm so sorry! You're hurting me!" Rushing into his room, he's clutching his left shoulder, begging. His heels dig into the mattress and his back arches up off the bed. "Stop, I'm sorry. I'm sorry! I woulda done anything to save Jess! Sam stop, please! Don't do this!" The tears run down his cheeks and my throat clenches, and I can't move. I want to go to him, I do, but I can't move a muscle. He's just writhing, and I can't go to him. His heels drum helplessly on the bed as he struggles against his nightmares. It takes a while, but I realize he's reliving when I was possessed. I know I shot him, and it seems to match up with his actions right now. "Why're you doing this to me? All I've ever tried to do was protect you!" When the yelling turns into a sob, I'm freed, and I rush to him.

"Dean, god, wake up! Dean!" Shaking him, I'm rougher than I should be, but I don't care. "Wake up damnit! I'm not gonna sit here and watch you fight this one out, okay!? I have to sit here every night while you have these nightmares, and I can never wake you up, but not this time! Wake up now goddamn you! I need you to wake up, please Dean! Don't do this to yourself!" He's still fighting, only he's struggling against me now, trying to push out of my hold, begging and crying for me to stop hurting him, because he's sorry. And I can't take it. "BOBBY!" I roar it out as loud as I can, because maybe even if Bobby doesn't come, it'll wake Dean up. Please Dean, just wake up. Is this what hell on earth is? Because if it's not, it should be. There's nothing worse than seeing my brother like this. The bruises are back in the darkness, the blood, the flesh pulled from muscle and bone. I thought I'd just been imaging things, because I stopped seeing it, but it's back now. And that scares me. "Dean, I'm not gonna hurt you, okay? I'd do anything to take that back. It wasn't me, Dean. And I can go the rest of my life feeling guilty, but Dean, I was possessed. Stop, please wake up." I try to keep my voice calmer, reasonable. My 'college boy' voice as he likes to say. "C'mon please dude. I swear to god I'll…I'll key the Impala if you don't wake up!" Bobby comes pounding in, half dressed. Does he sleep in his clothes?

"Sam? What's wrong?" He's not wearing a hat. Seems shorter somehow, without it.

"He won't wake up, Bobby." Dean's still struggling against me, trying to push me away.

"Stop! I'll do anything, just stop! I'm sorry, don't you get it!? I'd've done anything to let you stay at Stanford! I left you there as long as I could, but I needed you, you're my brother…you're my family, Sam. Who else I got, huh? So, please… stoppit! It hurts…" and he starts writhing in agony again.

--

Sam's got tears running down his cheeks. "Sam, we never manage to wake him up out of these." There's not much I can do for him, or for Dean at this point. C'mon son, wake up. "We've tried ice, tried water, hell Sam, we've tried everything short of hurting him, because he's hurting himself enough." I automatically move over to Dean, pinning his legs so he can't hurt himself. It usually doesn't help the nightmares, but it keeps him safe. Sam's got his head and arms anyway. Don't need him damaging himself. Physically. Mentally, well that ship sailed a long time ago. "C'mon Dean, wake up. Just this once," I'm used to him yelling at his Dad, or just begging some unknown thing to stop whatever it's doing. But, not this. "Sam, this is from when you were possessed."

"I know, guess after two times the lesson kinda sunk in."

"You got possessed twice and it never occurred to you to do anything about it after the first time!?"

"Well, we killed the thing…so, no. But, shot him both times."

"You shot your brother?"

"With rock salt, then…with a gun. But I didn't do it Bobby! I don't even remember anything!"

"Stop, please…Sam, why're you doing this to me!?" He's coated in sweat, freaking out something awful. I'm tempted to haul him out into the back and turn the hose on him. Might wake him up. Then again, it might not, and god knows what memories it'll trigger. I really don't need things to get worse. He fights against us until sunup, getting weaker and weaker. It's hard to admit that I'm thankful when his voice gives out, and he can't scream anymore. Sam's got his face pressed into Dean's chest. Started crying a few different times. Not much I could do, trying to keep Dean still. Might as well have been having seizures or something. I thought he was going to go into convulsions I don't know how many times. Damnit boys. Mouth's still moving, just no sound. Don't have to hold his legs anymore, I finally figure out. Been holding onto 'em all night, my hands cramped up. "Sam, I'm gonna open the window, let more of the sun in." I see him nod against Dean's chest, before I move. Gripping his shoulder tightly, I stand up. Blood sugar's a little low. And I've been up all night, I'm too old to be doing this. Pushing the curtains fully open, then the window itself open, all sorts of little happy bird noises filter in, like some sort of Disney movie. The sunlight plays over his face, seeming to erase the damage we could see in the darkness. The lamp's not all that bright. Then he wakes up, and the change is instant. He's shoved away from Sam, clearly terrified.

"Don't hurt me! Not again!" I can barely hear him, but he's screaming at the top of his lungs.

"Dean, no, it's me. It's Sam!" Sam reaches out for him, trying to comfort him.

"Please!" Dean begs, eyes wild. Sweat's running down his face, his shirt's plastered to him, hair matted down dark with sweat.

"_Dean_…" Sam's voice is so soft. Then the waterworks start.

"Sam, just go, I'll calm him down, then call you in, okay? He'll be okay. He's just still caught in the nightmare. It'll be okay. He's not scared of you Sam. It'll be okay."

"Bobby…" I can't take the pain on the boy's face.

"Please Sam, just go. Make some breakfast. Coffee, too. Dean'll eat, you know how he is." Boy's too tired to move, used up all the energy he had left shoving away from Sam. Chest is heaving, and he's panicking. I swear to god, when I die, I'm gonna find John, and I'm gonna kick his ass up and down wherever we are. And then I'm gonna hang onto him until Sam and Dean join us, and then all three of us are gonna give him hell until he apologizes to them and we know he means it. And hopefully even if they don't feel better, I will. "Dean, c'mere boy," I say gently. Easy does it. "C'mon Dean. It's Bobby. I haven't hurt you yet. And I don't plan on it, unless you do something real stupid and you're askin' for it." I know it's more my tone than my words he's hearing. I stand up again, moving over to where he's managed to get himself, on the edge of the other side. Always being difficult. Ever since he was little. Figured I'd be able to get used to it by now, but I'm not so sure I ever will. Then again, this, this is a whole other kettle of fish. I gather Dean up into my arms, waiting for him to stop trembling. Can't hear what he's saying, but I can feel his jaw working. "Shhh… Dean, just hush. Wake up all the way and come back to us, okay?" His hands grip my vest for a few minutes, before he wraps his arms around me in a hug. Probably exhausted, I can feel him shaking with it. His muscles are spasming, too.

"Bobby?"

"Dean, you okay?"

"Hurts," he mumbles hoarsely.

"You were screaming all night, thrashing around, too. You remember that."

"Remember everything," I can barely hear him.

"Dean, why don't we go see Sam." He stiffens, pulling away from me, or he tries to.

"Don't let him hurt me, please, Bobby."

"Dean? Sam's not gonna hurt you. That was the demon. It's okay. Calm down. Why don't you go take a shower, clean yourself up, huh? We'll talk after, okay?"

"Sure, but…you won't let him…I can't…"

"Okay. Sure. I'll keep him locked out in the yard, okay?" I'm joking around, but Dean just nods, looking around wearily. "Dean, take it back, just lie down okay? I'll bring you some water. Just stay put. Look at me," I warn, making sure he meets my eyes. When he does, and then nods, I leave the room.

"How is he? Can I go in there, Bobby, I gotta see him."

"Sam, he's a mess. Leave him alone," I mutter, pouring a glass of water for Dean. "He'll be okay, just give him a little more time. Still trying to fight his way out of the dream okay? They're pretty damn intense. I'm gonna look into some books and see if we can do anything. Dream catchers aren't gonna cut it this time." Sam nods, and I grip his arm. "Just stay calm, okay? He'll be fine. It's Dean," and I walk back into the bedroom. His breathing's shaky and not too deep. "Dean breathe. C'mon sit up." Sitting down on the bed, I get an arm around his shoulders to help haul him up.

"Five more minutes," he mumbles, pushing at me a little.

"Drink this and you can do whatever you want."

"What is it?"

"It's just water, Dean." When he nods, I press the glass into his hands, and he downs it. "Okay you go back to sleep, alright? But you're gonna have to eat soon. You hear me?"

"Yeah…" throat's still raspy. Then again it's going to be for a while. What'm I supposed to tell Sam? By the way, your brother, he won't snap out of it and I can't make him. I'm all for dumping a bucket of ice water over his head. But it'd probably make him afraid of me, too, at this rate. Just when we figured he was doing better, too. Taking the glass, I lightly touch his cheek, just for a moment, trying to see if he's got a fever. He pulls closer to my hand.

"Dean, where's it hurt?"

"All over," he mumbles to me, one hand going to his throat.

"Dean that's not helpful."

"Head…" he frowns, trying to think, "neck, my shoulder," his voice goes fainter. "All over," he repeats, turning away from me.

"Alright," I stand up, giving his good shoulder a slight squeeze.

"How is he?"

"Asleep. I'm gonna go see what books I have on dreams and protection. I'm figuring hanging a dream catcher up above his bed won't do us much good." Then again, it might. Worth a shot. I might have one somewhere. I have a lot of things lying around the place. Although it's ended up a lot cleaner since Sam started spending more time here. And then now that Dean's staying here, it's a lot less dusty. Sam's constantly moving the books around, and when his brother goes into a sneezing fit, he'll try and dust some, too. Take a damp paper towel to wipe off the other covers first, so he doesn't half kill his brother trying to just open the book.

--

I can't take this. I just want to jump in the Impala and drive off. And I get it, I mean I get why Dean loves his stupid car so much. It's freedom, it really is. Jam the keys into the ignition and you're gone. Not like anyone can stop you, it's a car, they weigh a lot, and they'd risk their own lives trying. Something about how Bobby talks to me warns me off going to check on Dean, but I don't care. Worst that happens is he wakes up, and he's still freaked out, and I just have to leave the room. I can't…I'll bring in some food, check on him, then leave. If Dean were up, he'd actually know how to cook. Me, I had a lot of frozen foods until Jess came into my life. So, frozen waffles it is. I can make toast, though. And eggs. Scrambled eggs specifically. I've tried other kinds, but, I can't do it. But when he can't sleep it's Dean who's up watching the cooking channel. Probably trying to remember all the things Mom used to cook. He can still make the sausages and potatoes. Funny what you learn about a person if they're about to die. Just wish I coulda known those things before. Not that it would change anything, just…might have made it easier. He's too damn good at keeping his walls up between us. It's not easy to deal with. Especially because sometimes I need to see in them, just a little. Just to remember he's human and he's hurting, too. Although this, at night, this I could do without. I don't know how to handle it at all. Because I can't help him. I just want to be able to do something, make up for all the times I didn't. Okay, more water, waffles…a piece of toast. Should be good enough. When I walk into his room, he's pale and sweaty still, but he's sleeping peacefully. Setting the food down carefully on the small bedside table, normally covered with books, but I moved them earlier. Bobby covers everything with books, it's insane. Crap, he's looking at me. "Hey Dean," I'm ashamed at how shaky my voice is. No reply. "Hey, look, I'm gonna find a washcloth, and you can use it to wipe your face and arms off, okay? You don't…you don't look awake enough to shower." I force a smile. No response. He's listening, I know Dean well enough to know when he is and isn't paying attention. When I come back, he's sitting up, looking around blearily. "You uh, you didn't sleep so good last night. Bobby told you to go back to bed," that might by why he looks confused. Usually when he wakes up in the middle of the day, it's on the couch, not in bed. Trying to hand him the washcloth, he pulls away from me instead. I don't get it. He's lucid, so it's not like before. "Dude, it's me, Sam." Nothing in the world could have prepared me for the next words he utters.

"I know."

"What?"

"I know."

"Then why're you acting like this? Dean, I'm not gonna hurt you."

"You sure about that?" he raises both eyebrows. "'Cause seems to me you do it a lot, and I'm not so sure I trust you."

"Dean, that's not you talking."

"You sure about that, too?"

"Dude, we've been through everything together. Nothing's managed to keep us down, I don't get it. I would never hurt you."

"You left."

"You told me to go. I asked you to come with me, Dean. I begged you, and you helped me go. Pressed all that cash into my hand –money you'd worked your ass off for, Dean, and I didn't want to take it. You told me it was an early birthday present, and you just hadn't used it to buy anything. That's how you got me to take it. You remember that? Think it didn't hurt me to see you standing there in the road next to the Impala while I sat there in the bus driving away from you? You think that was easy for me? I had to get away Dean, do my own thing, but you coulda come too, I would have done anything to keep you with me."

"Let yourself get possessed. Twice, damn you. Ran off that one time, almost got killed by Gordy. Seems to me you hurt me a lot."

"Well, I was possessed Dean, I'd never shoot you. I might want to, but I'd never do that. So that's not fair, Dean. That doesn't count."

"What, so you get a do-over?"

"You called one, last time. And that was even less fair. What you said to Andy, scared you couldn't save me. Well, thanks Dean, you saved me, and you killed yourself."

"That was my job, Sam!"

"Are you okay, because Dean, you look sick."

"What, I'm finally doing that sharing and caring bullshit you're always after me to do, and now you don't want it?"

"That's not what I said." I can't win this one. And I can't leave, if I pull away now he'll have won anyway. And this is one of those arguments where I can't lose. There are a lot it's not a big deal, the origin of Slim Jims for instance, the best kind of beer, and whether legs, asses, or boobs are more important. Those are all things that don't matter. What Dean thinks of me, and what he thinks I think of him, this is going to bite. "Dean, you look sick. You can keep yelling at me, but I'm worried about you."

"Oh. Okay. So, then when I'm done 'yelling' you can just chalk it up to a fever, is that it?"

"No." I purse my lips, feel them go flat against my teeth in annoyance. I could sock him. "But I would feel bad if you got a fever and it cooked your brain."

"Well at least you're finally admitting I have one."

"Dude, it's not your intelligence that's called into question, it's your food." C'mon crack a smile, anything. I don't know how to begin to deal with this. Never thought I'd like it better when he was crying. "Let me help you, okay?" I reach out for him, and he stiffens, jaw up almost like he's trying to ward off my touch. Doesn't matter, I take the washcloth anyway, wiping down his forehead, cheeks, neck. He's glaring at me the whole time. "I would never hurt you, Dean. Not on purpose."

"You shot me. I woulda fought it Sam, I wouldn't've let it happen. You didn't fight, hell you weren't even awake!" Was this really bothering him? Because he'd usually just glue my favorite pair of jeans shut or something. Hated when he glued the zipper and button closed. That sucked. That would have made us even, and he'd move on. Besides, he didn't even care. I know he didn't. It wasn't me. He knew that, and it relieved him.

"So what's actually bothering you?" Lightly running the washcloth over the back of his neck, I pull him forward, trying to get him to come closer to me. Mainly so if he tries to take a swing at me he won't have enough room. "Dean, it's me, Sam. Remember Sam? Younger brother, way taller, more handsome dashing and better at everything. C'mon, it's gotta ring a bell."

"You suck at getting girls, dressing yourself in clothes a straight man would wear, doing your hair so people realize it's hair and not road kill, I'm better with any weapon you can name –and it's a short list because you're bad at that, too!" Grinning a little, I duck my head and look at him through my bangs.

"Dude, you're right, you'd kick my ass with guns. That's how you know I was possessed. Actually managed to hit you, huh?" he looks at me, eyes wide a few seconds, before he starts laughing. I pull him into a hug, whether he likes it or not. He owes me for scaring the crap outta me.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?" I pull away to look at his face, he looks scared. "What?"

"It's so hard…"

"What's so hard, Dean…?" maybe he'll finally let me in so I can help.

"Telling the difference." What? That doesn't even make sense.

"Between what?" I almost repeat what he says, but that's always so intelligent sounding.

"The nightmares and what's real."

"Dude, I'm here, okay? I'll be there to tell you when you're being a dumbass, and I'll snap you out of it, okay?"

"What if I don't believe you?" his hand's clutching the front of my shirt. Gripping his other hand, I don't know what to say.

"'Cause I'm your pain in the ass little brother, and making you see the light, well it's my job. Batter everything through your thick skull, I mean what else am I good for? I do all the research, so I gotta be able to come up with something, huh? And if reason doesn't work, I'll just pester you until you agree with me to shut me up."

"Like when you thought Wolverine was Beast? And I kept telling you Wolverine had claws, and Beast was blue…but you kept insisting, and Dad told us both to shut the hell up, and I just gave in."

"Yeah, for the record, shoulda been the other way around. That Wolverine guy is pretty damn temperamental and he shoulda been Beast, and then the poor educated guy who just looks funny, he coulda been Wolverine."

"Seriously, comic books were wasted on you."

"Can't help it, I had a lot of real life heroes." Proceeding to make gagging noises, Dean rolls his eyes at me. "It's true. Smokey the bear, he was intense man." Then Dean bursts into laughter. I grin in response. "Eat your breakfast. Gotta fatten you up for Christmas." Then remembering earlier, "so kidding. Seriously. That'd be so gross, don't you think?" I always do that, verbally walk into a hole. Whatever, he's looking at the food like he might actually eat it.

"I need shoes."

"Yeah, I know." He's been having to stuff cloth into my extra pair. "We'll head out today, sound good?" He nods. "You wanna shower first?"

"Lemme eat," he says around a mouthful of food. Fair enough, I guess.

"I'll go get ready, let Bobby know we're heading out. And we can swing by this one cabin, I think it might be haunted."

"Haunted log cabin in the woods? Sweet."

"We are not hunting anything tonight."

"And if it is haunted, Sam? We gotta do our job."

"We can do our jobs once you can function for a full twenty-four hours, Dean."

"Don't screw with me, Sam, I'll kick your ass."

"You'd starve to death without me."

"You think I can't pop a few waffles into a toaster? Seriously? You'd starve without me, no one else to tell you to eat."

"I made it for a year."

"Yeah but you lost more weight than I did, and I was dead."

"You need new clothes, too. Most of your stuff needed to be replaced anyway."

"You so did not touch my Zeppelin shirt…"

"No. All your band shirts are fine and where you left them at the bottom of your duffel. They probably smell like they always do, too."

"Shut up, I do laundry more often than you do."

--

Don't push it Sammy. I can still take you.

"No you don't! You were always making me do it!"

"Bullshit, you never did it, so who ended up doing it? Me." It's always me. Whatever it is, I get stuck taking care of it. It's how life is. "Dude, I think that year screwed you up way more than it did me."

"Do you want me to start sharing with you what you've been like?" I can feel my eyes tear up. "Shit Dean, I'm sorry."

"What? It's the dust, you think I'm crying? I could kill you. With the fork you brought me. Whatcha think about that, huh?"

"I think you look like someone beat the crap out of you and dumped you on the side of the road. Eat your breakfast." Whatever, so I shut up and eat it. No big deal. Although he's acting really weird. I know I was mad at him, but, sometimes I can't remember. When he stands up I reflexively reach out for him before I can stop myself. When he grips my hand for a half second and then leaves, I'm stunned. At myself, not Sam. What the hell's wrong with me? Food's gone. Looking around the room, I paw through my duffel. One pair of jeans left, man we gotta do laundry soon. Does Bobby even have a washing machine? Clean shirt, c'mon, okay black t-shirt…olive Henley… and a flannel button up. Great. Not my first choices, considering the black one's got a lot of holes in it. Was I shot when I was wearing this last? Dunno if I want to wear it again. I certainly don't feel like sewing it up. Hate doing that anyway. Okay, so the Henley –no bullet holes, but the seams…damn. Well whatever, I can still wear it under the flannel, and no one'll notice. I hate shopping. Dragging fresh clothes into the shower, I clean up, figuring I'm going to need some new soap, too. I'm not using Sam's, and the hand soap really isn't all that good. Makes my skin itch a little. Probably just dries it out, but I'm not the lotion type, so… When I'm done, I tug on the thickest socks I can find, Sam's feet are huge. He's got friggin' clown feet. I'd rather just go barefoot, and then since he's the one buying things, it's not like they can refuse me service. I know what I want. Same as I had before. Shouldn't be too hard. We're out in the boonies, they're gonna have places where you can get work boots. And decent clothes. Then again, any local Target's gonna sell Henleys and undershirts. Looking at Sam's shoes, I wonder if he'll notice me padding around in socks. Probably. Damnit. Tugging on his shoes, I can't tighten the laces enough to make a difference. I'm not that much shorter, but I really don't have big feet. Not like they're small or anything, either, I'm just not awkward like Sam.

"Let's go," I mutter, grabbing my bluish grey jacket, considering Dad's leather one's gone, along with my shoes and whatever all else I was wearing that day. Definitely need more boxer-briefs, too. What the hell happened to all my clothes? Did Sam just chuck out everything that looked half worn out? Well, whatever needed to be washed that wasn't worth washing according to him. I never threw his clothes out, didn't matter how worn out they were.

"Alright. I'm driving."

"You're always driving," and I can't keep the sullen edge out of my voice.

"You don't know where we're going, Dean!"

"So!? I can follow directions. Better than you, I might add."

"Well sometimes following directions is a bad thing."

"I didn't say orders, Sam." I get into the Impala, shuffling my feet uncomfortably and curling my toes trying to get used to the feeling of a shoe several sizes too big. Considering he's got over three inches on me. Otherwise how would he stand up and balance? He needs the giant clown feet to survive. I turn on the radio, glad when it bursts out with 'another one bites the dust' and find myself mouthing the words happily. Sam starts to mumble along and I poke him in the arm so he'll stop. I don't sing very well, but at least I can hit the notes and stay on pitch. Barely, but I can do it. We get to the typical feed/work store. You can buy tools, overalls, anything that says Carhart on it'll sold in this kind of place, along with Cat and whatever all else. The only trick is finding my shoe size. Getting out of the car, I almost trip on the soles of the shoes, they're so big they flop around when I'm trying to walk. Sam snickers, and I'm tempted to kick one of them at him. Considering it'd probably just slip off my foot no problem. Serve him right. But we make it in okay, and I ditch him, heading for the shoes. I hate this with a passion. It's why I usually don't do it, wearing clothes until even the seams disintegrate. It takes all of ten minutes to find the shoes I want, and there's no way I'm putting Sam's back on. 'Sides, the barcode's on the box anyway.

"You need anything else?"

"From here?"

"They sell a lotta clothes."

"Okay, I'll look," whatever to make him happy. I really just want to go home. Well, home being a motel, or Bobby's place. Looking at a few of the jean and flannel shirts, there's nothing I actually want. I want the clothes he threw out. Told me he didn't touch anything. Bitch got rid of my favorite shirts. I don't care how many holes were in 'em, that's why I'd roll the sleeves up or not button 'em, because then you couldn't tell. I had a system.

"Need socks or anything like that?"

"Those're the only things I don't need." Hey, cute worker girl at 4'o'clock. I flirt with her for a few seconds, until Sam starts to tug me away, wanting me to look at something else I probably don't care about.

"Don't you wear these?"

"Shirts, Sam? I think everyone wears them."

"No, these things, with the two buttons at the collar."

"Oh, yeah."

"You want some?"

"Sure." Then he makes the annoyed Sammy face. "What!? I hate shopping, and I hate clothes shopping. Y'know what's fun to shop for Sam? Guns and car parts."

"Pick a color."

"Any color?"

"Dean, one of the colors on the rack." I think he might just try and kill me.

"Uh, black, the dark red, and…how about the olive green…"

"You're wearing…it has too many holes to repair, doesn't it?"

"What size?"

"I dunno, medium maybe?" I fucking hate shopping.

"You wanna try one on?"

"Sam, this is why people think we're gay!" I explode, unable to take it anymore. I hold one up to my chest, checking the sleeve length. It'll go past my knuckles, which means it's plenty big. I like the sleeves too long so if my clothes shrink when Sam washes them, they'll still fit. And so when it's cold I can just tug my sleeves down and keep my hands warm. Grabbing the aforementioned colors, I glare at him, before slamming the clothes –and shoe box down onto the counter. Another pretty girl, "hey," I grin at her.

"That all for you?" well, she's no fun. Where's the other one?

"Yeah, that's all." Got my wallet and a few fake cards already. Sam and Bobby started work on them again soon as they figured I was gonna live, I guess. I've only got two or three.

"Can I see some I.D.?"

"Sure." I flash her a driver's license.

"Alright, thank you."

"No problem." So many pick up lines I want to try and use, but, one look at Sam says he'll kill me. I have a feeling this goddamn shopping trip isn't over. Although I still need some clothes. Another pair of blue jeans okay, two, and undershirts still. I don't like the over shirts they have here. I don't care that much about what I'm wearing, but when it looks like you either shot the couch, or started collecting its vomit, there's a problem. Once we're in the car, I switch shirts figuring the holes all down the side aren't getting any better. But I can still use the shirt as rags for the Impala. Or if I really need another layer or something, I can toss it over the top of another shirt. A normal one. But I'd rather not see this one again.

"You ready there princess?" Sam asks me.

"I dare you to call me that again." Sam just starts the car. Damn straight, I'm tempted to say. Instead, I settle against the door, so I can go back to sleep. This staying awake thing isn't something I'm good at anymore. Then again, no coffee. I still don't understand why not, but okay. "Can we go by that coffee place again?"

"What, Starbucks?"

"Yeah."

"No. We passed it."

"Seriously? It's further out in the boonies than this place?"

"Yeah, well, it's closer to the people, too."

"Can't believe there's a Starbucks out here."

"Dude, they're everywhere. Don't be stupid."

"Was it there a year ago?"

"Fine." I win, I always win.

"Can we go home?"

"What, back to Bobby's?"

"No, I…I need to go back to Lawrence."

"Dean…"

"Don't 'Dean' me, I…I need…I know we can't go inside…I just, I need to…I need to go back, okay?"

"Sure, maybe we'll meet up with Missouri and she might have some word on where Dad is."

"I don't…I don't care about that, Sam. I just, I need to go home."

"Why Dean? Everything we loved there is gone."

"I just…I killed Mom, Sam."

"What!?" Sam pulls the car over, looking at me, his eyes concerned. "Dude, maybe we should go back to Bobby's."

"No! I just, I was too slow Sam, if I had been faster, better, she wouldn't have had to step in and save us. She woulda been alive, Sam. I killed Mom. Just like I killed Dad. If I'd realized he was possessed sooner Sam, maybe he wouldn't…maybe the demon wouldn't have messed me up, or if I'd just been stronger we wouldn't have needed to go to the hospital, and I knew something bad was gonna happen, but I couldn't say anything, it hurt too much, and then I didn't fight hard enough in the coma, Sam, I wasn't fighting enough, and I got Dad killed, Sam."

"What? Dean, no!"

--

He means it, he believes every word he's saying. "Dean, no! Goddamn it no! You didn't kill Mom, Dean! If anyone killed her, it was me, because I'm the one the demon wanted. Alright, so don't you dare try and play that game with me! If I hadn't been born, you'd have a mom a dad, a home, maybe you'd have gone to community college and you'd be working in Dad's garage, hell maybe you'd have taken it over by now. So don't you dare go there with me!" He can't believe this, I can't let him believe this. "But thing is Dean, it's no one's fault Mom died. We got the thing, you remember? You shot him, Dad got free of Hell, and you shot the bastard. You ended him Dean, and you saved us. You protected your family. So we're even. We got the bastard back for what he did to Mom. Okay? It's not your fault. And the poltergeist? You wanna blame something for Mom's spirit getting burned up, blame that thing! Don't blame yourself. Hell Dean, maybe if I'd been faster getting my ass out of the house it wouldn't have gotten ahold of me. Ever think of that!?" I can tell he hasn't. I grab his hand, forcing him to look at me as I grip it tightly. He's cold again. "You…did…not…kill…our…Mom…" I say it slow, annunciating carefully, watching the words hit home. "You loved her, Dean. Dad loved her, hell you _still_ love her! And, I love the Mom you tell me stories about, she's beautiful. She's the angel watching over us Dean. She wasn't lying, she was just…she's the one watching us, okay?" I can't stand the tears. I'd do anything to make them stop. "C'mere," I mutter, unbuckling my seatbelt so I can hug him. "Dean, I need you to listen to me, okay? Can you do that for me?"

He draws in a shaky breath, "Yeah. Yeah I can do that. But Sam? She's not watching over us. She's gone…and it's my fault Sammy…"

"No, Dean, you don't get to do this. Listen to me. You cannot, you cannot keep blaming yourself for everything that goes wrong in our lives, okay? If you want to blame something, blame the damn thing that keeps causing the problems. Dean, you do things no human being could possibly do, you're strong, you're fast. Dude, there's no way you're ever too slow, or not strong enough. Okay? Some things are just impossible." I feel him draw in a shuddering breath. "Look, you remember when Jess died, I was blaming myself. Dean, I had visions and I didn't do anything about it. Okay? I had nightmares for months. And you got me through it. And you're right, Dean it wasn't my fault. I couldn't have stopped it, because if I'd been there, it would have killed me, too. So, you don't get to blame yourself, okay? You just don't. If I have to I will hit you as hard as I can every time I catch you blaming yourself. I don't care what it takes, but it's not your fault."

"How is not my fault, Sammy? I wasn't…I didn't get inside fast enough, and then I ended up slammed against a wall."

"Y'know what Dean? You followed the plan. You did your job, and you got inside as fast as you could, with a friggin' poltergeist trying to keep you out."

"Dad coulda done better." I almost clock him. Almost.

"What the hell Dean!? If Dad was so perfect, how come he didn't kill that doctor the first time? Huh? How come he didn't get the shtriga? How come he didn't get more of the vampires and we got compromised in the first place? How come it took him so damn long to catch up with Yellow Eyes? Damnit Dean! How come he let himself get possessed in the first place!? We found tattoos, Dean! Hell, we were better prepared! If Dad was so damn great and perfect, how come he never had time to love us, huh Dean? He was always so busy failing at catching up with that thing, hell he gave it the colt and his soul! He couldn't think up anything better! You're the better hunter, Dean! You came up with that plan that got everyone at the police station safe. Ruby was wrong, Dean. That was brilliant, we…Lilith…god Dean, she was something else, but we all survived that night. When we were gone, there wasn't anything we could do. You understand me?! Because I know you've been blaming yourself for that one, too! We had to move on, so Hendrickson could do his job, Dean, so stop being an idiot and get over yourself! You're not responsible for the troubles of the world, and trust me, you're too damn insignificant to cause so many!" I wrap my arms tighter around him. "Dean, if you need to, we can go home, okay? It's not a big deal. Just, don't make some…don't blame yourself for things you have no control over. Honestly, sometimes it's just easier to blame God. And it's hard to come to terms with that, okay? I get it, but man, you can do it. Sometimes things happen for a reason, and you have to hope that it's a good reason, and that you'll find out what that reason is. And Dean, my place is with my family. I don't belong at college, and I never would have been a good attorney. Besides, if you don't have a girlfriend and a family of your own, then I don't, either. You're my brother, Dean. And you're all I've got left. So I'd really appreciate it if you'd stop killing yourself on the inside." Because then maybe you can heal.

--

It's easier to just give in and bury my face in Sam's jacket than to think. It's nice to feel safe, for a change, like someone's looking out for me. I don't get why Sam hates it so much. I'dve done anything to get Dad to look out for me the way he did Sam. Done anything for that security and affection. Hell, I couldn't earn it. He's my Dad, and I know he loved me. In his own twisted incapable way, but he did his best. I just wish his best had been better. Wonder how often he thought that about me, wishing I were just a little better, even if I was giving my best. But, _he_ loves me. He's my brother. It hurts. "Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Nevermind."

"Dean…I'm too tired to play games."

"I'm not playing games…just, forget it." He pulls me a little closer, smoothing my shirt down some, and I know I've upset him.

"Okay."

"Sam…I just, I'm sorry!"

"For what?"

"Nothing, I'm just sorry."

"Dean, you can't be sorry without a reason."

"I'm sorry you didn't get to know Mom, I'm sorry Dad was an ass, I'm sorry Jessica died, and I'm sorry I'm not a better brother, sorry I couldn't protect you like I was supposed to. Sam, that was my fault. And, I'd be okay right now if I'd saved you like I was supposed to. And I wouldn't be a mess and I'd be able to read, even if it is a waste of time and…you wouldn't…that year, you wouldn't have been alone."

"Dean, I knew Jake was super strong, and I turned my back on him. How many times did Dad tell us never to turn our back on the enemy? I didn't finish him off, Dean. I should have, you would have. Really, Dean, it's more my fault than yours. If I'd been better, I could have gotten out sooner, or found a way to get word to you better. Dean, you can't blame yourself for that. You couldn't have stopped it any more than you could stop the sun rising."

"Actually," I mumble, thinking of a book Dad and I burned. "it would have been a lot easier to stop the sun rising than to save you."

"Well, there you go." Wait, that wasn't what I was trying to do. Damnit. That's so not fair.

"No, I mean…" shit, what do I mean? I don't even know.

"You serious about going home?"

"Yeah, think I am." Looking out of the Impala, I glance at the sky. "Dude, we've been sitting here on our asses for like, an hour."

"Well, that's not my fault," Sam mutters, and I resist the urge to slug him, instead forcing myself to hug him. Is it bad that it always feels awkward? Like we're not supposed to do normal things like hug each other? Sam hugs me back tightly and I wonder if he feels the same way I do. Does it matter? Just then there's a tap on the glass of the Impala's window. Sam rolls it down, concerned.

"Can I help you officer?" The cop takes in our appearance, and I realize I've got tears running down my cheeks still, and I wipe them off quickly with one hand. He just gapes at us for a few more minutes.

"Sam?" I say in an undertone.

"Yeah?"

"I think he thinks we were having a 'brokeback' moment."

"What!?" Well said, Sam. "Look officer, my brother and I have places to go. Like a funeral, so if you don't mind…"

"You've just been parked a long time on the side of the road…."

"Well our Mom died, and it's just…it's just time to put her to rest, sir, but it's hard, we were just taking a moment. We're the only family left. I mean she had a lot of friends but, we're the only family left." Nice Sam. I sniff again, actually wouldn't mind a tissue right now. Might be getting a cold. Or else I've developed allergies. He's always good at that. Although, I'm better, usually. But my mind feels dull, like it's not working up to speed. "So officer, if you don't mind, we've got to get there early, make sure everything's all right. Change…" Sam snuffles miserably.

"Well…alright, drive safe…" he says doubtfully.

"Thank you," Sam says as he backs off, before turning the key and hitting the gas. We're back on the road before Sam even remembers his window is open.

"He thought we were necking?"

"Yeah. Looks like."

"God that's so disgusting."

"I think I need you to pull over again."

"What, why?"

"So I can puke my guts up."

"Think there's room for the two of us?"

"Never ask me that again."

"Point taken."

The rest of the drive passed in silence, more or less. Sam and I spoke a few times, not really about anything important. Other than pointing signs out to me to read them. I still recognize numbers just fine. I don't know what the hell's up with this reading thing, but I really can't say as I care that much. Other than maps. As Sam pointed out, how am I supposed to find my way through the states if I can't read the signs? That's the only reason I'm putting up with any of this. I know the letters and the rules for spelling, which I've had to prove that one time too many, I just can't, the little squiggles don't mean anything to me. It drives Sam insane because he can't understand, and him being bitchy means I'm irritable. Sometimes I kinda feel like it wasn't such a good idea I came back. Not that it was my choice was it? I don't, I wanted out. It's hard to remember, because all I really remember is the pain and the suffering. Life's just too hard sometimes. It's easier to lay down and die. Which means I gotta keep fighting. Can't take the easy road, that'd be, well, easy. It's not fair, is it? I miss Dad. Was so much easier to just take orders and not have to know or think for myself, sometimes. Easy to know the objective, know which hunt to go on, where to go, what was right and wrong…without him, what'm I supposed to do? I mean, I always improvised on hunts, because they never go according to plan, in fact they usually start before we're ready. But, I don't know how to cope, sometimes. Because Sam looks to me to take the lead, and I just, I don't know what I'm doing. Once the thing comes at me, I know to shoot, know to protect my baby brother, but I don't know what I'm doing. Not really. Looking over at Sam, I realize he's brooding again.

--

Looking at Dean, I can tell he's stewing. He always does that, bottles everything up until the bottle breaks, and glass shatters everywhere, ripping up his insides –and he still just bottles it up and keeps it to himself, picking up shard by bloodied shard and putting them back into place just so they can shatter that much easier the next time, ripping out bigger chunks of his heart. And he won't let me help him. I'd help him pick up the pieces. In fact, I might have some glue he could use. It's called understanding, a little love, and you've got something pretty damn near impossible to break. It's probably the glue that keeps us together so we don't kill each other. I look over at Dean, "So we'll hunt this thing, I think it's just a typical spirit, only, of course the body's cremated, so, looks like we gotta search the house, okay? And then we'll head to Lawrence."

"Thanks Sam," he whispers, and I nod a little. "Wait, I thought it was a cabin."

"Yeah, looks like we were wrong," I mumble, thinking about Lawrence. It is time to put Mom to rest, let her go. Let go of wanting a life we're never going to have. It's just time to bury it. Not hide it, and keep hoping, it's time to really let go. Funny thing is, I don't know if I can do it. It's a long drive to Whitney down in Texas. And traffic in Dallas? It sucks. Once we get there. Even driving all night it'll still take a while. North Dakota to Texas isn't my idea of a fun drive. Then again, it could be worse, Washington or New York to Texas. Of course we've driven from Washington to Florida, so I guess it's not that big a deal. Although I've always wondered why we never went up to Canada? No monsters there? Because, I don't get it, why just the U.S.? Not that I'm complaining, considering that's a lot of territory to watch over, but with Dad's obsessions…I just figured it didn't make sense to limit it. We did go down to Mexico once to get a Chupacabra. Okay, technically we chased it across the border, but…we were on Mexican soil. And then got chased by the Minute Men. God that sucked. Can we never do that again? I think Dean almost got shot, or did, or something. Either way that wasn't fun, and Dean never wanted to go back, and when I suggested it after he wanted to go down to Tijuana, he abruptly dropped it and turned the radio up. Weirdest thing, I can't remember. Then again Dean and I have a lot of memory gaps from head injuries.

Dean sat quietly, remembering.

When his father got drunk. How he was only twenty-two, Sammy still in school. Grateful that Sam wasn't there to witness their father's lack of control.

_Dean figured it was five o'clock somewhere, and with hunters, every time was Miller time. "Dad, it's tomorrow," Dean said softly, knowing his mother's birthday was the following day. "Starting the celebration a bit early?" he asked softly, trying to gauge his father's mood. Considering alcohol often changed John. Sometimes it made him more cheerful. Other times it was impossible to tell if he was drunk or not, despite the emptied beer bottles littering the table. "C'mon Dad, let's get you to bed," he told his father quietly. _

_"Dean?" _

_"Yeah?" _

_"When's Sammy getting home?" _

_"C'mon Dad, you know that. Another couple a hours, when school lets out." And however long it took Sasquatch to walk back to the apartment they were renting -with those giant legs. Always had to make Dean feel short and struggle to keep up. Or else Sam whined about having to slow down to accommodate his brother. Dean moved fast, just because he was several inches shorter did not mean he was slower, it just meant he had to work harder, and so he did. Without complaint. Going to his father's side, Dean tugged John's arm over his shoulders, "C'mon Dad, you should probably go to bed." John smiled, and affectionately patted Dean on the head like someone might a dog. Piss drunk. _

_"Always the good boy. Never have to worry about you," and Dean felt his throat tighten, and his eyes water before he was able to take the anger and rage and stuff it away, compartmentalize it somewhere else so he wouldn't have to deal with it, because he couldn't. Good boy, Dean, good boy, here's a biscuit. Clenching his jaw, he could almost feel the tic in his cheek before he helped his father up. Sometimes John got drunk and he was 'fine' and other times he got like this. Just usually the day Mary died, and on her birthday or their anniversary. Well, what would have been. It was hard for Dean, but at least John always managed to do it where Sam wouldn't see or know about it. _

_Settling their father into bed, Dean tugged off his shoes, before pulling the covers up. "Just rest Dad, okay?" he asked quietly, his voice almost begging. Sighing, Dean rubbed his hands on his jeans, feeling uncomfortable. Soon enough his father's drunken snores penetrated the thin walls separating the two bedrooms. Dean and Sam shared one, their father had the other. Feeling slightly ill, Dean tried to take a nap, knowing that as a hunter, it was important to sleep whenever possible, because sometimes there was no rest for the weary. Unable to relax, he found his fingers drumming, foot tapping, tossing and turning. Unable to even begin to relax, Dean got up and gathered all the beer bottles together, before sticking them all into the glass recycle down at the bottom of the building. Glancing at his watch he knew he only had about five minutes before Sam got back, and he shot upstairs, planting himself directly in front of the door -on the inside, so he could stop Sam from doing more than dropping his backpack off. _

_Hearing the keys in the lock, Dean took a few more steps back so he could take them forward like he was coming to let Sam in. _

_"Hey!" he said, forcing a smile. _

_"Hey Dean, where's Dad? I need him to sign something..." _

_"Uh, he's busy. C'mon, let's go for a drive or something." _

_"Dean," Sam started, looking around for their father. "I really need him to take a look at this."_

_"Give it to me, I'll forge his signature like I always do." It was the only way the boys had been able to go on field trips or anything else, because neither one had the guts to ask their father to sign it, too afraid he'd say no. Their financial situation meant everything was paid for anyway. They had arrived early at school for breakfast, got free lunch, and then only relied on their father to supply dinner. Without school, Dean no longer bothered with lunch or breakfast. While their dad got a lot of odd jobs to support them, it was never really enough, and sometimes he wanted Dean to work, too, and other times he didn't. This was one of those times in which Dean was trapped inside all day, supposed to be keeping a low profile while Sam went to school and had a life. And it hurt. But he was the 'good boy'. Dean found himself biting his tongue, hard. _

_"Dean, I think he actually needs to see this," Sam said, holding a paper folded in half in his hand. Dean's hand darted down, grabbing it and opening it, turning his back to Sam before the younger Winchester could even react. "What the hell, Dean!?" Sam snapped. _

_"Shhh, Dad's busy," Dean hissed, not wanting their father to wake up. Glancing at the paper, his eyes went round in surprise. "Sam, this is...this is great!" Dean said, his face white. Turning to face his brother, "You...dude, you got in!" he smiled brightly for his brother. "Where's he supposed to sign?" _

_"He's not, I just didn't want you to see it," Sam muttered, knowing it would hurt his brother. He could see the pain in Dean's eyes, and his body language. The way his shoulders slumped down chin raised in a show of defiance trying to hide the distress. _

_"Why not? You think I wouldn't be happy for you? Sam you should go!" As much as Dean didn't believe it, believed Sam should stay with his family. "I mean...you can't, but you should." His brows furrowed in confusion as he tried to understand what he meant. Sam did, and sighed. _

_"Dean, I can't afford to go." _

_"Sounds like you got a scholarship right here," he said, pointing. "Looks like it's a full ride Sammy." His hands shook, lightly rattling the page before Sam gently took it from him, folding it up and tucking it into his back pocket. _

_"Like you said Dean, I can't go." Sam sighed, unable to meet Dean's eyes. "Uh, I'm gonna take a walk or something, okay? I'll see you later, dude." _

_Dean bit his lip, wishing he could invite himself along, but...he knew he wasn't welcome. Wasn't welcome around Dad, wasn't wanted around Sam. "Yeah, I've gotta hit the road, pick up some supplies," Dean muttered, uncomfortable as he brushed past his brother. Sliding into the Impala, he sighed as he smoothed his hands over the wheel, watching Sam start walking the opposite direction the Impala faced. Rolling down the window, Dean opened his mouth to offer Sam a ride, before closing it, and his eyes, as he turned the key in the ignition, hearing the steady roar as his car came to life. Trying to calm himself, he figured he'd hit the freeway, go as fast his could while avoiding cops, blow off some steam. It'd be okay. Maybe he'd look for a job anyway, it'd be nice to have extra money for things like sodas. Considering he couldn't just walk into a bar or liquor store. John refused to let Dean have an I.D. that made him 21, because he knew exactly why his son wanted one. Even if Dean was already 22. Things like that pissed him off. And he shut his mouth, said 'yes sir' and kept going._

_Things had been fine when Sam got back, going to his room to work on the latest homework assignment, Dean not getting back until roughly one in the morning. He got a severe dressing down from their father before returning to the bedroom the boys shared, and stripping down to his underclothes before tugging pajamas and slipping into bed without a word. _

"_Dean?"_

"_What?" _

"_You okay?"_

"I'm tired."

"What?"

"Huh?" Dean mumbles back to me, looking confused. His hair's mussed up and he looks like he's stoned. Grinning a little at him, I shrug, "Never mind, I coulda sworn I heard you say something is all." Lightly ruffling his hair he grumbles at me, batting my hand away before settling himself against the door again. Rolling my eyes, we've still got a ways to go. Hopefully he'll get some sleep. Considering I don't want him spacing out if he's serious about hunting. I don't want him to. Be serious. I don't…it doesn't feel right, he doesn't feel right, he's not ready for this yet. And I don't get why he's trying so hard to force it. It's not like he even likes hunting. Not anymore. Not since Dad died. Then again it's just not right without Dad. But, unlike Dean, I can let go. Let go of Dad and put him to rest. Not that it's easy, or that it's something I could just do, I just…it's not as complicated for me, I guess. Dad's dead, and I love him, but he's gone, and so there's…I can't keep hanging on or hoping he's going to come back and save the day like he used to. It's been a long time since Dad's done anything like that, anyway. If I recall, we jumped in saving his ass. At least we tried to. More than he did for us, abandoning Dean like that. I guess I can be angry at him, for both of us. After another couple hours of driving, Dean's completely out of it. At a stoplight, I pause to grab a blanket from the back, and carefully toss it over him. Out this far, there's no one for miles, so if I go through the red light, or don't go through the green, no one's going to care. Aren't even cameras up, so I'm especially not worried. Making sure the blanket's actually going to do him some good, I figure in a few more hours I'll find a motel, we'll check in, call Bobby, and get some rest. Well, I'm going to wait until I find a motel with wi-fi, because, oh hell no.

_(and here you all were thinking there might be a happy chapter for once. pfft. suckers. j/k. Seriously, thanks to everyone who alerts, reads, reviews, and faves. _

_And so, reviews please?) _


	17. Chapter 16: Can't Burn That Down

_(Updating because last week the surgeon didn't show up...so, tomorrow is the day they're actually taking my wisdom teeth out. And I'm going to whine...I used to have all these people who used to review, like zuimar and my random anon reviewer, what happened? Did you guys start hating the story or something? I feel like I failed the people who used to review or something. And to all of you who have been reviewing, thank you, it means a lot. Dedicated to L, as always, and thanks as always to Mish for the occasional prod and the wonderful beta job. Reviews if you guys wanna see the last two chapters, please?) _

**Chapter 16: Can't Burn That Down **

Stretching out on the motel bed, I pause, wondering how I got here. I remember being in the Impala, and falling asleep. I vaguely remember Sammy throwing a blanket over me, because I remember the weight and the warmth. I do not, however, remember any transition between then and now. Rolling over, Sam's asleep, light's on in the bathroom, which is good. Considering I'm pretty sure I'd trip over myself in the dark trying to get to it. Taking care of a few things, I crawl gratefully back into bed, glancing at the clock, before getting up again and looking outside, careful not to move the curtains enough that any light can get in to wake Sammy. Middle of the day. How late were we out driving? Deciding I might as well sleep, I crawl back into bed.

--

Waking up some time around eight pm, I glance over at Dean. Out cold, mouth half open. He's stretched out all over the bed, an improvement over how he curled up into a ball and sobbed in his sleep. Hell, he could snore if he wanted, and I think I wouldn't mind. Getting up as quietly as possible, I stretch out, my back popping. Freezing, Dean doesn't so much as twitch. Usually he'd be awake, knife in hand. So it's still hard to see him, for all he's sprawled out like normal. Used to suck when Dad'd only get two beds, one for him and one for me'n Dean, even when we were in an apartment or renting some house for a while. Although I spread out, too, and I'm bigger than he is, so I guess either way it sucked for both of us. Yawning, I head into the shower. Never hurts to be clean.

--

Dean slept another two hours before Sam started to wonder if something was wrong with his brother, because it didn't match Dean's recent behavior. Sleeping late, sleeping at all, and sleeping peacefully were three things Dean hadn't done since a good couple months before the deal even came due. Watching his brother for a few tense moments before he snuffled and rolled over, pushing his face deeper into the pillow with a soft snort, Sam relaxed, settling into a chair and tapping as quietly as he could on his laptop. He found if he pressed the keys down slower than the sound was quieter. It had taken him watching Dean typing –a painful hunt and peck motion until Dean settled into using the laptop and started typing at his usual warp speed- before Sam noticed the difference in sound quality. Then again, he never tried to sleep through the tapping of his own laptop. Sam started to get restless, foot tapping before guilt stopped him, realizing that Dean was well and truly exhausted, for all he'd been sleeping some in the car. It didn't matter how much sleep Dean got when he wasn't in a bed, it didn't do him much good. Especially not with how weak he was. It was hard to realize Dean wasn't Superman, sometimes. Because Dean was always there, big, strong, obnoxious, and ready for everything. It cut the younger Winchester's heart to have to deal with his brother's weakness, because he was terrified he was going to let his frustration and fear show, and Dean would pull away from him. Retreat to a soul of empty bottle glass green.

--

Sniffing once or twice, I sit up, eyes half shut as I squint around the room lips pulled back in a grimace. What the hell? It's too bright, pushing my face back into my pillow, I hear Sam's chuckle, and wish I had the energy to get up and beat him to death. Okay, I take that back, to within an inch of his life. Possibly half an inch, maybe a quarter. Pushing myself up off the bed, I look blearily at him, squinting until he comes into proper focus. Making a face at him, I get up, before ambling into the bathroom. Not sure if I want to shower or just go. Splashing my face with cold water, I try to relax. But something just hurts. My head hurts. Stumbling back to the bed, I try to sit on it, clutching at my head before I managed to miss, but my back still hits the mattress as I sink down to the floor. "Sam…"

"Dean," he's instantly near me, hovering.

"Something's wrong," I gasp, clutching my head. It hurts. Hurts so bad I can't see. Guess that whole 'learn to read' thing Sam's been going on about is gonna hit the back burner. He immediately starts to put his arms around me.

--

Dean reached out, one hand on his head, pressing the heel of his palm into his temple, the other scrabbling down Sam's arm, seeking purchase for something, anything, to hold onto; anything to ground him against the pain. "Dean, what's wrong?"

"I don't know," he gasped, agony sending waves from his head down his back and into his limbs as he collapsed into Sam's arms completely. "Hurts," he forced out, unable to say much more past the agony. Curling in on himself as best he could, Dean tried to contain the pain, force it to stay in his head, wishing it would just end. It locked his body, holding him rigid.

"Dean, I'm gonna get the med kit, we've gotta have something…" leftover from the hospital. Better to have Dean puking than in this kind of pain. Quickly finding the pills it took a matter of seconds to find the right bottle before Sam was back at Dean's side with a water bottle barely able to coax enough water into his brother's mouth to help him swallow two of the small white pills. Sam figured that the kind of pain his brother's in, it's not going to get fixed with one tiny pill meant to help recovery, not deal with fresh agony. When Dean almost choked, Sam felt his heart leap into his throat. "C'mon Dean, you can do it…" he mumbled, holding his brother.

--

I don't know how to take this, the pain he's in. C'mon, stay with me. I see his eyes change, empty bottle glass green to bright pained emerald. He's fighting it, fighting to stay with me. Grabbing his hand, it's got to be skin on skin contact, I don't know how I know, and I don't care, but I can see him staying with me longer, eyes glassy with pain, but not empty. "Hey, I'm here, I'm here. It's okay, I won't leave you, it'll be okay. Just stay with me. I'm here, please don't leave me." I can't stop begging him. I'm still losing him to hell, even after he's free. I can't take this. "C'mon Dean, please man, c'mon. Stay with me. Swear to god I'll start playing Bon Jovi, and Death Cab for Cutie, and all those. In the Impala. I'll throw out your tape collection if you ditch me, you hear? Just stay with me, please." The pain's still there, eating at him. Have I been missing it? Missing signs of how much he's still reeling from it, still in shock? No, he was doing better. Dean was getting better. He even looked better in the shadows, just mottled bruises instead of open wounds.

"I need…" he heaves in another breath, fighting to stay with me. "Need you to talk to me, Sammy."

"About what!?" I hear my voice crack. Anything, right, Dean? Anything. "You remember, we went camping? Well, Dad went on a hunt and dumped us in a campsite. The usual typical Dad. And he had you help him set out traps and things for food. So we'd be able to eat," I start babbling like a madman. "And I remember you caught a rabbit. And, Dad wanted you to know how to kill them, skin them, and cook 'em, you remember? I remember you trying so hard to do what he wanted. But, you, you caught it alive, and so Dad wanted you to break the little guy's neck, and you couldn't. I remember watching you and Dad through the trees. He figured I shouldn't see that kind of thing. Still trying to protect me. But you had that bunny in your hands, and you were looking at it, trying to find a place in yourself cold enough to end its life. And you couldn't do it, Dean. You tried so hard. Couldn't shoot it, when Dad suggested that, you just stood there shaking. Couldn't take a life. Especially not after all those Bugs Bunny cartoons, huh?" I force a chuckle.

"And so Dad did it, right in front of you. And I remember how you straightened up, and tried to meet his eyes and couldn't. Because it was…traumatic. And I'd never figure you'd like animals. Still don't believe it, sometimes, even when we were dealing with that coven. Why's the poor bunny always gotta get it, huh, Dean? Guess it's 'cause there're so many of 'em, huh?" I take another breath, trying to remember. It's Dean who remembers. Or I guess he can't forget. I don't know if this is a good or a bad story to tell, but it's all I can think of. "And so, he wanted to skin it. And, I remember, he was trying to teach you. I think he knew I was there, but he wouldn't do anything about it. It was fine with him, I guess. I don't know, who _ever_ knows what Dad's thinking, right? God knows we tried hard to figure it out, we were wrong a lot. But, he…you couldn't do that, either. You just froze up, and I couldn't see your face, until Dad was sticking the meat on some skewers to cook it, and your eyes, they were perfectly round. And I remember wondering if you were going to cry. I sat as close to you as I could, trying so hard to let you know I was there. But you'd never lean on me. You were always there for me, but you'd never let me be there for you. And I don't know why it upset you so much, I've seen you hunt things, seen you shoot a person just to stop them hurting me, seen how cold you can be. And, you couldn't take out a rabbit. Guess there's still more human in you than you want, huh?

"But that's what's good about you, Dean, you're human. And nothing, there's nothing wrong with that, and nothing can change that. You wouldn't eat the rabbit, remember? Took the part you were supposed to eat, and you buried it after Dad left, along with the fur and stuff. You wouldn't let me help you. And, I remember eating it, and wondering why it bugged you. I mean, people shoot animals to eat all the time. But I guess they don't hold them in their hands, don't want to explain to them that they're doing it so they can live. Don't know how to face that eye looking at them in terror. You actually willingly ate vegetables for a week after that," I do laugh at that. I watch his eyes, as his face goes through a series of changes as he fights to stay with me. It's my voice that grounds him. I've got a hand on the back of his neck, holding him to me, and I start compulsively kneading the tense muscles.

"Dean, I need you to help me remember, okay? I can't, I can't remember without you, you're the one who has all the stories, you hold onto everything. You're like a scrapbook, dude. Even when you won't tell me stuff, you still remember it. And you remember it better, you're better at telling stories, Jess used to tell me that if I wasn't so handsome, the moment I opened my mouth to tell a story, she would've walked away. I don't get the pauses and the feelings right, not like you. At least not when you're trying, anyway. You get animated, and intense, and anyone'll listen to you for as long as you want." I don't let go of his hand. "Help me remember, okay?" He forces a nod, but I can feel how tense the muscles are, he can't relax if he wanted to. It's like his whole body just knotted up. "Dean, what else? Help me remember. You remember Cassie? You really loved her, and I was an ass to you about it. I'm sorry, dude. I shouldn't…I…yeah. Well you know what I'm trying to say. You always know, and you never want to hear it. Remember Pastor Jim? How much it sucked when we visited in the winter? How much you couldn't stand how Caleb could take up so much of Dad's time, when they were hunting, and you got shunted aside. Dad was just trying to protect you, not replace you. And Dean, I don't remember all those Christmases, I don't remember the shtriga, I don't remember any of it." I was too little for most of it. "And I still don't believe you about the Easter Bunny."

"Bicycles."

--

I don't know if Sam'll remember me trying to teach him how to ride one. I think Bobby had some, and he'd fixed them up to sell them again, considering they were kids' bikes, and nice enough. Someone must have left them in the car they sent to have scrapped.

"Yeah…" Sam says slowly, thinking, and I don't have time for him to think. I can't, he's…so hard to focus. Can't, I can't do it. Hurts so bad. Can't, then he's talking again. I just try to listen. Sometimes I understand and sometimes it's just noise.

"I remember. You were, we didn't even have training wheels, and you could ride a little. Not make the turns too well, but you were okay. Don't even think you scraped your knee or anything," Sammy laughs. "But, there was a lot of stuff to hit, and I wanted so bad to make you proud, prove I could be a good little brother, be just like you. I looked up to you, and just…Dean, you were everything to me when we were little. You still are." When I can move again, I'm punching him for that.

Can't see. Hurts so bad I can't see. Can't tell Sam, even if it was easier to talk. "But, you helped me on the bike, and you were holding the back of the seat, keeping me even, and you were…couldn't have been too old, for Dad to be letting us play instead of train. But, you…trying to run next to me, and I was trying to pedal fast so I could move quick enough to balance, I was so afraid I'd fall on you or run you over, so I kept pulling away, and you kept trying to hold on. And I figured it out. It worked, but I couldn't get started without help. You had to hold the bike for me so I could push the first pedal down and get going." I can't see his face. Can't move mine. Keep talking, please keep talking. "And, I got better at it, and you figured out turns. Because you pretty much went in a straight line until you hit something, or else you had to stop, and get off, and turn the bike. And it wasn't like you couldn't balance, just when you were learning, no one ever taught you. You knew you had to lean. I remember you falling. Stubborn enough to keep trying. So I was trying, too, and I kept going in circles instead of a line, because I kept leaning to the side. Between the two of us we could have made one kid able to ride a bike. But we figured it out. Wasn't much to do other than go in circles, though. But we did it, and you were so proud. Bruised up good, too. Think you lost one of your baby teeth re-learning and teaching me. Not sure, though, it could have been something else. You remember when I lost my first tooth? I wouldn't eat apples for years. Because no matter what you and Dad told me, I was always afraid it would take out more of my teeth."

I remember that, only I'm pretty sure it was a peach. Because they're gross and get stuck between your teeth, and they make those sucking sounds when you bite into them. Which apparently they're supposed to, but I always thought it was disgusting. But, Sam liked anything just about. Then again, we hated canned food. Got so sick of it. But soldiers don't complain. But, a fresh peach? Instead of that canned crap? Hell, we'd force it down so fast we'd choke, try and eat the pits. Anything. Keep talking, Sam, please keep talking.

"In high school, we used to walk home together. Because Dad wouldn't let you get a real license in case people could track us, it would be one more record in the database, and so you couldn't have a car, because the school wouldn't let you drive it, because to park it, you'd need a parking permit. And they'd want to see your license. So, we walked. We lived far enough out in the boonies that there wasn't a bus system, and the school buses sucked. You wouldn't get on them. And it used to get hot, and I'd be so pissed at you for always making us too late to get on the bus. Never figured you just didn't want to go home." No, Sam, you're wrong. I wanted to go home…just, we never had one to go to, Sammy. "Didn't want to deal with Dad, didn't want to train, didn't want to have to eat another canned pea as long as you lived, forget that nasty canned fruit crap Dad bought in bulk. Didn't want to see him drinking another beer, did you? I didn't get it, I was always too oblivious, and I get it." I realize Sam's spewing his guts out to me.

But I can't focus. Keep talking Sammy, I'm listening. I'm always listening for you. I'm trying so hard, just keep talking. "And, so we'd walk home. And you liked to kick up the dust, because it reminded you of those old Westerns, and I got mad because you'd get dust on our clothes, and you'd kick it into the air, and it was hard to breathe sometimes. And you were so fed up with me being a whiny pain in the ass that you bent down, picked up a handful of dirt and rubbed it in my hair. You remember that? Told me to live a little. I decked you. Didn't realize how tense we'd been, living in backwards-ville for the past couple months. Couldn't stand moving around, and here we were staying put and we couldn't take it. Lotta things to hunt, and Dad was cleaning them all up. God we kicked the crap out of each other. We came home, your shirt torn, my lip split…you were the better fighter, even when you were doing your damndest to hold back and lose. Couldn't help yourself. And you tried so hard, wouldn't take swings, hell you didn't even block, Dean. And me, I was just too pissed to even notice." Sam pauses, and I can practically hear the hamster fall off the wheel, squeak in surprise, and climb back on before realizing it doesn't know what it's supposed to do. Sam shifts, pulling me closer. I barely feel it. "Y'know, I was gonna try and talk about the good ole times," Sam laughs unhappily. "And, I think about it, and there aren't any, are there?"

Yes there were, yes there were! Sam there had to be! Remember we were little, and I was reading to you. 'How the Grinch Stole Christmas' and you started saying 'who' every time it popped up in the story, because you could recognize it, because I had to have my finger under the words to be able to read smoothly to you. Otherwise I'd lose my place. So there was me reading, and you saying 'who' every five seconds and Dad walked in, on time for once, for Christmas, holding shopping bags in his arms. Yeah, the presents sucked, but we were warm, and Dad pulled me into his lap, let you crawl up, because you would. I wouldn't. I was always trying to be the older one. Grow up so you wouldn't have to. And he started reading where I left off, and I settled against his chest, listening, and you kept saying 'who' like an idiot, because you are, and…that was good. That was a good Christmas. We had eggnog, too. It's better with rum, but we didn't know that at the time. Remember that Sammy? Dad got you a toy car to push around the motel floors, I think he got me a sketchpad because when I was little I drew on everything. The motel notepads? I filled those. All crap, but still. He forgot pencils, so I kept drawing in pen. Never looked at anything I drew, that I know of. And I never showed him. Guess I was always scared of Dad, huh Sammy? If I'd been more like you, maybe he wouldn't have…maybe he would have been more open with me…like he was you. Always knew what you wanted, how you were feeling, what you liked. Me, I tried to be him. So he never had to try to get to know me, because it never mattered. Already knew himself, right? And me, I didn't get it either. Sorry Sammy. Guess it's a bit late to strap on a pair, but…

"I remember my first day of school, and I was so scared. You couldn't come with me, and Dad, we did everything together. Dad ditched us and it was always you and me. I cried. So scared you weren't coming back, because you were gonna be like Dad. Dude, that teacher was so obnoxious, because she kept trying to make me feel better with this clown puppet, and you know how that went down." Yes, yes I do. I would have laughed. I know the Spanish word for clown. How about you, Sammy? Payaso. I wonder if they like clowns in Spain. Or other places they speak it. Where do clowns come from, anyway? Who ever thought that would be a good idea. But it's a word we use, 'clowning around'. Dad used to use it, sometimes, with the word 'stop' attached. He also said 'shut the hell up' a lot. Don't ever really remember talking around Dad. We were always quiet. Up until you started yelling back. Jut your chin out and stand out facing him down, even when you were shorter. Moron. He'd get so mad at you. Then he'd turn on me. I never got it, so I used to try and hide, then I tried to stop the fights, play peacemaker. Just ended up getting torn up on both sides. But it kept you two from going at each other. Hurts. Everything hurts.

"And I got out earlier than you, because there was no all-day kindergarten, so I went to your class, because Dad couldn't pick me up. And I was crying. I don't know if I stopped, I wanted you so badly. And I wasn't supposed to go to your class, but I ran in anyway, and you wanted to know if I was hurt, and you were so mad that I was upset, and I stopped crying the moment I was hugging you. And I wouldn't let go, remember? I was scared that I'd lose you. So scared I'd never see my big brother again." Sorry Sammy. Harder to focus. "And so I got to stay in class, and I crawled into your lap and sat there, probably sucking my thumb, because I did that a lot, and I kept messing with your papers and whatever you were trying to do. I think that was the time they wanted you guys to work on things like dividing, so you had clay or cookie dough or something, and I kept eating it. I hope it was cookie dough." Chocolate chips, but close enough. You were five, so that's not too bad. Not like we ever talk about anything like this.

"And, all the girls thought I was cute, and like they weren't already fawning all over you anyway. You've always had girls after you. Dunno how you do it, but you seem to enjoy it." Hell yes. Why can't you? Idiot. "And so it became a thing. I would go from kindergarten to your class. I could already read, because of you. And because of Dad I could already add and subtract anyway, so I learned whatever you did. But Dad didn't want me to skip a year. So I was bored all the time in class. So I'd read in my classes when I was a little older. Or I would skip to come to yours. You were never paying attention unless I was there, and I swear to god you probably never really knew what was going on in class." I still passed, didn't I? Got a high school diploma, too. Besides none of it mattered. So what if the phrase "to be or not to be" meant anything to me, so long as I could shoot a black dog in just the right spot, find the right grave to dig up and burn. It didn't matter. "So, I remember holding your hand a lot in kindergarten, because we'd walk to the apartment from the bus stop, and you never worried I'd do something stupid like run into the street, because I knew better. But I always wanted to grab your hand anyway. Guess I knew you had a death wish even when I was little." I feel him lightly –teasingly- hit me upside the head. "Damnit Dean," Sam whispers, and I'm scared he's going to leave me.

"Don't."

"Dean?" His hand stops moving on my neck. Please don't stop. Hurts. My head hurts. Can't see, can't see your face. Please don't stop. How'm I supposed to know you're there? His hand starts again, and I remember to breathe. It's hard to remember to do that, sometimes.

"Don't leave."

"I'm right here," he hugs me tight. "I'm not gonna leave you." I hurt him, asking him not to. I'm sorry Sammy. Everyone always leaves. I'm sorry. His hand starts working my neck again, the other around me. I try to relax my muscles, but I can't. Pain's too bad. Can't, and I'm trying. Sam, help me. "Dude, if I get you on the bed, you think you can stretch out at all?" No. I'll try, though. Try everything once. Well, almost everything. I'm not eating bugs, especially slimy ones. I'll leave it to Beaver. Damn, that woulda made you smile. Hurts. I try to push closer to him, show I can hear him. I'm fighting. The room flickers. Can't see. Can. Can't. Dark. Normal. Help me. Make it stop. Think I'm gonna puke. Haven't eaten. I'm hungry. Muscles ache. Did I work out recently? What's that hunt? How's Bobby? What about Dad, how's Dad? Help me. Can't move. My head hurts. Sam? Sammy?! I can feel him pulling me up, hands under my arms. Can't push my legs down, they're still curled to my chest. Can't see. Is my nose running? I'm tired.

"Shit Dean!" What?! What?! "You're bleeding…" Okay, so it wasn't running. Sorry I didn't say anything. I'm on the bed, though. Gotta force my legs straight. I can do that, it's not that hard. Muscles hurt. Locked too tight. What the hell? Help me. Don't leave, where the hell are you? Sammy? Sammy come back! Don't leave me alone, please don't leave me alone.

--

I grab a washcloth, soaking it in cold water before wringing it out and pressing it gently to Dean's face. "I'm here, it's okay, I'm here." He's trembling, and I know it's because he's fighting himself. Trying to move. "I'm here, just relax, okay, Dean? Just relax." When the hell are those pain killers going to kick in? I know normal drugs take about twenty minutes, but this stuff? Should work better. Then again, if he's that rigid and hurts that bad, he might not even notice. No, there he goes. Helping him to lie flat on his back as his body goes limp. "Hey there, I'm here. Just stay calm for me, okay Dean?" It's important to say his name. Bind him to it. There's power in names, if you know a thing's true name, there's all sorts of lore. "C'mon Dean, stay with me. Just need you to stay awake." He's not looking at me, in fact he's just staring out into space as far as I can tell. "Hey talk to me, what're you looking at?"

"Hmm?" his eyes don't move, and I wave a hand across his vision, nothing. He blinks a matter of seconds after. I keep the washcloth pressed to his nose, pinching the bridge tightly.

"I'm gonna need you to sit up, okay? I don't want the blood draining down your throat, so c'mon, sit up." I help him, trying to hold the washcloth and tuck pillows behind him. But at least he's doing what I'm telling him to. "'m I hurting you? Pinching too hard?"

"No, 'm okay."

"Alright, if you're sure," he sounds a little spaced out. But his pupils are even, he's breathing fine through his mouth, he knows what I'm saying. Given how he's been this isn't so bad. Slipping my arms around his shoulders so he can relax into me, instead of having to keep himself up, I sigh. Checking to see if the bleeding's stopped, it hasn't. This'll be fun to clean up. "Lemme know if you get nauseous." Usually oxycodone makes him puke. Almost every single time he's ever been given it. But so far, he's doing fine. Keep doing fine. Please Dean, keep being okay. Well…for you. Please keep being okay as you ever are.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?" I feel my heart race, wondering what's wrong.

"You crying?" he turns his face to look at me, but he's not seeing anything. I move my hand again in front of his face, before rubbing at my own. My cheeks are damp.

"Yeah, guess I am. Sorry. I'm okay. I think it's just stress. 'Cause you're fine."

"Dunno. Can't see."

"What do you mean, you can't see?"

"It's all dark. You turn the lights out?" He generally sees fine in the dark. Especially after. Just like his hearing's gotten better, and his vision on the whole. I don't understand.

"No, lights are on. Probably just the headache. When things get better you'll be okay."

"Okay Sammy." Been a while since he's said Sammy out loud, I don't know if he thinks it to himself.

"It's Sam."

"You always say that, and I never listen," he grins wearily, not at me, he can't see me. He starts to drift off, and I'm scared that if I let him sleep, he won't come back to me, just like I'm scared if I don't let him sleep, I'll lose him that way, too. I can't win. But I can hold him.

"Yeah, I know you never listen." Rolling my eyes, I have to remember he can't see it.

"Still hurts," he whispers.

"I know."

"Sam?"

"What?" I ask softly.

"Is it ever gonna stop?"

"Yeah."

"When it does, will there be anything left?"

"Of course! Dean!" I shake him a little, then belatedly check to see if his nose's finally stopped bleeding. Yeah. Unless I shake him so hard it starts again. Stupid…I'm sorry. "Dean, there's so much left, the pain, it'll stop, okay? You'll be okay, and it won't hurt. I promise." I'll find a way, I'll find a way to make it stop hurting.

"Okay," he whispers, eyes shutting as he curls into me. I rub his back for a few seconds, feeling my eyes well up with tears. Rubbing at my eyes, I gently lower him back onto the bed. I gotta clean all that blood off of him before it dries and starts to crack and flake. Don't need him scratching holes in himself just because of dried blood. He's done it before. Got some scars on his shins from when he did that. We couldn't get washed up, and he just kept rubbing and scratching until he made himself bleed, and that dried, and he just kept making it worse. Although I could barely stop myself. I had to sit on my hands so I wouldn't do the same thing. Then again it wasn't our blood all over us. And I know it was driving Dad insane, too, because he kept rubbing at the back of his neck where it'd sprayed and hit him. Cave goblins. Dean shot one that was behind Dad, and the other he took out from the front. Me, I was watching Dean's back, I got one of my own. That stuff itched like no other. We all had a rash wherever it touched us. I was just glad that I didn't have holes in my jeans at the time. Dean did, god…he has scars where he scratched…Dad got so mad, was worried about infection.

Remember when we were biking, the house we were renting, they'd left their bikes. They weren't coming back, had a house in Florida or something. Dad had called and asked if we could ride the bikes. Dean won't wear shorts because we were riding down some trails, just me'n him, and we kept getting hit by all sorts of sticker bushes when we were going fast downhill and it was too late to avoid them on the narrow trails and it wasn't like he could stop without me running him over. Remember it took a long time to pick all the thorns out of our legs. I won't wear shorts, either. We knew that the reason we wore jeans on hunts was for protection, but we figured cargo shorts? It was hot out, and while it'd be cooler in the shade, we'd work up a sweat and didn't want to die. Or get our jeans any dirtier or sweatier. Considering we hated doing laundry, and if we waited long enough –if we could hold out, Dad would do it for us. Just like he'd bring us food and cook it, too. When Dean couldn't take canned food anymore he'd go ahead and cook for us. Demand something edible. I think Dean could have been a good Italian chef or something, because he can do a lot with pasta and tomato sauce. I swear I have no idea how he managed to make anything edible out of canned crushed tomatoes, tomato paste and angel hair pasta. But we ate well enough. Like, once a month. Usually he was too exhausted to care what he shoveled into his face, me either. And it's not like he liked cooking or anything. Hated it. Half the time he'd open the can shove it at me and then go to bed. I don't blame him. When I come back to clean his face up, it takes a while, trying to dab at his nose so I don't start the bleeding again, but without leaving it crusted around his nostrils. When he starts to stir, I realize I have to finish cleaning him up anyway. Might as well get his shirt off him while I can, "hey," I say softly. "So, you think you can get your shirt off without help?"

"Don't swing that way, Sammy," he mumbles, pushing away from me.

"Yeah, neither do I, just it's covered in blood, and I gotta wash it."

"Later."

"No, Dean, not later." Rubbing at my jaw, I sigh. Okay, I can handle this. I can handle Dean. "Seriously, what would Dad think? Just take your shirt off."

"Don't feel like it."

"I'll get you a clean one, okay? Here, look."

"Can't see you," he mumbles, before rolling onto his front to push his face into the pillow, arms slipping up and holding onto it. Grabbing a clean shirt I sigh, before coming to sit next to him on the bed. I feel like some harassed stay at home mom trying to get her pain in the ass senior out of bed for class. Rubbing his shoulder a little, I don't know if coaxing will work, but I'll try that before I go with the yelling. It's always easier to yell.

"C'mon Dean. It's gonna get stiff and hard and smell bad, and it won't be clean and you won't be able to wear it. And it's gonna itch and get all over everything, and you'll have to sleep in a bed with flakes of blood. Just take it off. C'mon, it'll only take a few seconds to get it off, c'mon Dean."

"Bite me."

"Seriously dude, don't push it."

"Thought you didn't swing that way."

"And here I was thinking you weren't kinky."

"I'm tired, Sam."

"And I'm annoyed. Your point?"

"I'll kick your ass. Lemme sleep." Pushing a hand through my hair, I take a breath, tempted to dump him forcibly out of the bed. Instead, I start tugging his shirt up, determined to not put up with this crap. Someone has to take care of him, and if he's going to be an ass, oh well. God knows he's pulled me through worse. He struggles a little, before just stretching his arms out so I can tug the shirt off. Blood's soaked through in patches on his chest. Rolling my eyes, I press the washcloth to it, and he jumps. "Cold!" he snaps, hands reaching out, and I realize he really can't see. Otherwise he would have shoved me or something. Grabbing one of his arms, I rub the blood off his chest, before handing him his shirt.

"Now you can sleep. But when you wake up, leave the asshole in dreamland." Pushing away from him, I sigh, before retreating to the relative safety of my laptop.

--

"Yeah, sorry Bobby." I sit up, looking around, and everything's seriously fuzzed out. Am I on an acid trip? Because I want off the bed, it's spinning too fast. I make sure I've got a grip on the mattress. Can't really see, but it's not as bad. There's color, now. Sorta shapes, I think.

"No, I know, yeah, look, no, I just, yeah, we were. Uh-huh, well, I was, no, yeah, okay, sure, see you around. It's a poltergeist? Thanks. Yeah. No. Bye."

"Sam? Who're you talking to?"

"Uh, Bobby. How long you been awake?"

"Few seconds."

"How well can you see?"

"Good enough to drive." Which is a lie. I don't think I can keep from tossing my cookies. Standing up, I make it into the bathroom, after rebounding off the doorframe, sinking to my knees on the cold linoleum, hands searching for the toilet seat so I know where to puke. Don't feel so good. Everything's spinning. My head hurts.

"Dean!" Probably just haven't been drinking enough. Or eating. Hungry. He's keeps talking like he's gonna watch out for me. Can't even remember to feed himself! How's he supposed to remember to feed me? I feel like a cat. Maybe a dog, no dogs are stupid and have big floppy ears. Some do. Okay, get your hands off me, Sam! I can stand up fine! Still dizzy. I want off now, tell the people to stop the ride. Don't…

--

"Dean!?" When this is over, and he's fine, just like before the deal, before Dad died, I am going to do something to get him back for all of this. I get that he's hurting, I get he's scared, but I figure since he's taking a year off my life almost every time he opens his mouth, I get to take a couple off his. Speaking of which, how old is he now? I mean there was a whole year…so is he the same age? Wonder what he'll make of that. Three years apart, not four. I caught up a year. And he looks younger. Like someone went and scrubbed off all the worry lines, all the pain and anguish off his face. It's still there, in his eyes, but it's not crinkling around the corners, or pinching at his mouth, hollowing out his cheeks. He looks like he did when he burst into my apartment, embittered, but tough and capable. That is, when he's not reeling in my arms, trying to cope with that's going on inside his head. It would have broken me, what he went through. And I know it broke him, but, it would have snapped me like a twig with nothing left. Dean, he's still got his roots dug in strong. He'll be okay. Rubbing his back in slow circles, he sags against me. Then, looks at me, eyes searching for my face. Still half blind.

"You forgot to feed me," he accuses, and I chuckle, after freezing and waiting for him to grin. Lightly patting his head, it's going to be a running joke between us the next hundred miles at the least.

"Well, c'mon Garfield, let's go." Dean pauses, looking at me, eyes rounded before he started laughing. "What?"

"If I'm Garfield, you're John." I pause, and think about it. Grinning, there's a website of just John, where they took out Garfield's editorial comments. John is so pathetic it's funny. I don't know who thought it up, but it provided some serious amusement after a final, although everything's funny after you've been awake a straight forty eight hours. Or in Dean's case, everything's funny until it makes you hurl. Personally I want to know why he hates airplanes, he didn't used to. We had like, a set of Hot Wheels as kids, including airplanes and all sorts of things that weren't just cars. Dean always used to like the fighter jets just fine. It was a real shock to find out he was terrified of flying, not to mention nice to see he had fears just like everyone else. Although, I feel like I'm being overloaded now, funny how you get what you wish for only to realize you never wanted it in the first place. I mean, I wanted Dean to open up, not sharing and caring bullshit, just, not keep to himself so much. Now I get why he hates it so much.

"And well, Garfield's a huge fat cat and no one loves him. And he has uncomfortable visits to the vet." Dean grins.

"At least the girl'll touch Garfield, she won't come near John," he points out reasonably.

"What about Nermal, huh?"

"Everyone hates the little bitch, and you know it." I can't believe we're talking about this. For real.

"Well, what about the bad singing?" Then we both stare at each other before bursting into helpless laughter until our sides ache; a painful reminder of some of our last days together. Checking out of the motel isn't much fun, because Dean's hanging onto the hem of my shirt, because he can't see too well. Tells me it's like a bad acid trip, a lot of colors and not much else. He walked into the doorframe twice, before he could get out of it. Walked into one side, hitting the left shoulder, so, he tried to move far enough away to not hit it and get through the door, and ended up smacking his right shoulder into the door. If he hadn't started laughing, I think _I_ would have started crying. I joined in, laughing with a tinge of hysteria, but we made it out alive. Dean went back to sleep in the car, waking up after the first hundred miles, deciding he was hungry. And had to pee. So we hit the nearest diner on the road, some dated place, still trying to live in the fifties. They had old records hanging from the ceiling, pictures of Elvis and Marilyn Monroe, Sinatra, Day, James Dean –thank god Dean's half blind- Taylor, Lucille Ball, John Wayne. Dean walked in, and froze, looking around. "What?"

"We walk onto a Grease revival set?" he asked me, squinting around the room.

"You can see?"

"Sorta. The black things on the ceiling gotta be records, and everything's bright red. Black and white things in squares…pictures of people like 'The King' right?"

"Yeah." He nods his head and grins, proud of himself. The moment he opens his mouth, "You call me Watson, you die, you hear me?" he just shakes his head chuckling.

"You got me." Then looks up. "It's only been what? Twenty-eight years?"

--

I can't see Sam's face, but I'm sure he's making a face at me. Shrugging as best I can, "You get to read me the menu," I tell him.

"You're just gonna want pancakes with bacon and scrambled eggs."

"So? Sometimes I get something different." Then I look around, wondering what the hell is that crap playing. "Is there a jukebox?"

"Yes."

"Find a better song."

"Dean, there's not going to be a better song."

"Oh God." This is gonna be a long breakfast. Watching Sam sit down, "Dude, I don't know where the seat is. Everything's either red, white, or that ugly T-bird teal."

"Oh." Sam's up on his feet, because suddenly there's a brown fuzzy thing up above my head. He guides me down into the booth and I slap his hand away the second I know I'm not going to hit the floor instead.

"Let's do something different."

"Like what? You'll eat just about anything."

"Now that's not true. I don't eat rabbit food."

"Only rabbits eat rabbit food."

"Not true, those skinny minis eat it all the time. It's called 'salad' so that people will eat it." Sam starts laughing, and I crack a grin. The waitress comes over, and I want to ask Sam if she's hot. I can't even tell how old she is. I just know she has dark hair. Her voice is hot. Watch her be forty. Or older! I miss the days when Dad sat across from me and Sam, I could lean over and elbow Sam, whisper into his ear all sorts of snide remarks without risking being overheard.

"You boys know what you want?"

"Uh, no, not yet," Sam says uncomfortably. She's so hot, and she's checking him out, not me! Son of a bitch! Kicking his leg under the table, he grunts. "We'll be ready in a minute, sorry, but we'll have two coffees, if it's not too much trouble," I kick him again, "Please." Then he looks at me when she bustles off. "What the hell, Dean!?" I grin at him.

"Just figured she might be pretty."

"She could be our mom."

"No way!"

"You really are blind, aren't you?" I don't like his tone.

"Screw you."

"No thanks," he says, and his head's moving, I think. I can see motion. And blobs of color. But the colors aren't quite right, somehow, blurring into each other, like when they take those pictures of cars on a freeway. Shaking my head, when she brings the coffee, I put my hands flat on the table, grateful I like it black, slowly sliding my hands along the plastic until I can feel the cup, again moving slowly until I get my fingers wrapped firmly over the top the way I like to hold my mugs. I drive Sam insane, but I hold it from the top to the side over the handle. I don't get why it bugs him so much. Lifting it up, I take a sip, wishing I'd thought to blow on it first. But I swallow anyway, setting the mug down slowly, afraid I'm going to smash it into the table. Sam reaches out and takes it from me, his rough hands sliding around my own to take it, so I don't do anything stupid. It reaches the table just fine, judging from the soft clink.

"You want sugar or cream or anything?"

"No." Then I realize Sam's trying to talk to me. "No thanks, I never put that stuff in my coffee, you know that," I mumble, wondering what he wants from me. We're like magnets, only the ones that push away, instead of pulling close. And the harder we pull together, the harder it is to move forward. I do like black coffee.

"So, are you twenty nine or what now?" Sam asks me.

"What?"

"Well, I mean, technically it's been twenty nine years, right? But like…does that last year count?"

"Why?" Okay, random.

"Well," he swallows. "I mean, it could mean I'm three years younger than you, instead of four." I grin, so that's what this is about. Wants to know if he has to try and make up for my birthday. God no. I don't care.

"Sam, it's fine. I feel younger than I ever have, okay? Let's just forget it."

"But, I wanna know how many candles I'm supposed to try and fit on a cupcake this year!" he whines at me. It's become a tradition to turn a cupcake into a koosh ball. Or a porcupine, depending on if we can manage to make a face in it. Or was it a hedge hog? Is there a difference? Sam'll know, and care. I don't. But after one year, when I was trying to stick eleven candles into the cupcake, and ended up sticking candles into the side, we started doing that. It was one of those rare times we managed to crack Dad up good. I remember because he asked Sam how he was going to light all the candles, and Sam looked up, so confused before he looked at it. Sixteen candles. All over everywhere. His response was priceless; "with a lighter!" at which point Dad laughed until his eyes watered, watching Sam trying to light them all without getting wax everywhere and managing to keep the cupcake from tipping over. I had a bitch of a time trying to blow out those candles all in one go. But Dad mentioned burning the motel down. And I wanted to tell him it didn't matter, because we were a family, and you can't burn that down.


	18. Chapter 17: I will Remember You

_(one more chapter. thanks to everyone who found time to review, favourite, alert, whatever. : Hope the fic continues to please) _

**Chapter 17: I Will Remember You**

When night fell Sam stepped out of the car, he and Dean had been on a stakeout almost all day. It was not only boring, but almost pointless. However poltergeists could be nasty, and Sam wasn't sure he wanted to risk something happening to the family. So far this one was more playful than deadly, but Sam again wasn't going to risk it. Neither was Dean, who had suggested the stakeout in the first place. Probably, Sam felt, to prove that he was just fine and could stay awake as long as it took. Finding himself waking up several times to his brother, still awake, lightly drumming on the wheel along to the songs playing in his head, Sam looked around groggily, wiping his mouth with his hand reflexively as Dean tugged lightly on his nose with a slight grimace. It was one of those weird little things Dean just did all the time, Looking around the darkness, Sam could see how it was affecting his brother –skin pale, breathing shakier by the minute as he started to hum "Fade to Black" by Metallica. Sam almost laughed, and Dean looked over at him, probably knew he was awake before Sam did. Dean stretched out his shoulders until they popped, groaning in relief as he settled back into the seat. When he glanced at his brother again, Dean deliberately closed his eyes, settling deeper into the worn leather of the Impala's interior. Foot still tapping to the beat, Dean dozed off, stilling. By the time the family left, pulling out of the driveway, Sam was thoroughly bored, and found himself drifting off. A buzzing in his pocket startled him into reality.

"Hullo," he said, rubbing at his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to wake up.

"Sam," Bobby's voice crackled with a combination of static and annoyance over the line.

"Oh my god, Bobby, I'm sorry!" the young man said, eyes going wide, but keeping his voice hushed. "Dean's asleep," he added, hoping it would keep Bobby's tirade short, for all Sam knew he deserved it.

"Damn straight you're sorry, you idjit!" the older hunter snapped, incensed. But Dean sleeping –and so far it sounded peaceful, made him pause. "How's he doing?" Bobby asked, voice gentler.

"He's fine." Dean's sight had come back stronger every time he slept, so the catnaps he'd taken as they drove to get to the small house in Texas had left his vision perfect, possibly better than usual. Sam still wasn't sure. He'd been forcing Dean to memorize letters and so far Dean had it half way through, but it seemed like every step he took, he ended up taking a good five backwards. It'd stressed out the older Winchester so badly he'd started to break down, and Sam realized he had to go slower. It was just too much, trying to handle normal life, well normal being relative, and then trying to learn things that he should already know, it was frustrating and upsetting –not to mention difficult. "We're halfway through the alphabet," Sam said, not telling Bobby Dean was going to be aiding him on the hunt. Dean had fought tooth and nail to be going, saying he wasn't going to be cooperative unless he could come. So, Dean tolerated Sam teaching him the way letters looked, and having to eat healthier, if not by much, and the idea Sam would be in charge of the hunt, but Dean would be going along. That was the important part. "Look, I've gotta go," Sam mumbled uncomfortably knowing the longer he was on the phone the more likely Bobby was to figure out something was up. "Need to get Dean to a motel soon."

"And yourself," Bobby said sharply. "You have to take care of yourself, too. Dean'll handle himself."

"Like he's been doing?" Sam snapped before he could stop himself. "Throwing his life away, or trying to? Refusing to let me look at him when he gets hurt, or take any medication when he's sick? Trying to be so macho and cool so I can look up to him, when all he really does his scare me and piss me off!" Dean's eyes opened a fraction the cool green appearing in a gentle slit framed by dark lashes. He heard it all, and then let his eyes close, forcing his face to remain impassive, to pretend he was still sleeping, deaf, dumb, and blind to his brother's words. "Don't tell me he's handling himself! He's just dying to get himself killed, he's always so damn eager to sacrifice himself, and he just doesn't seem to realize that I'm going to be the one to bury him!" Sam froze, realizing he had heard those words before, his brother yelling them, voice tight with the pain. _"you and dad, you're always so eager to throw your lives away, but me? I'm gonna be the one to bury you!"_ Guilt crashed over the young man in waves as he looked over at his sleeping brother, reaching out to lightly touch his hand, assure himself Dean was still there, and none of this was a dream.

"Sam," Bobby said heavily, so much he wanted to say.

"I've gotta go," Sam mumbled, adding a quick "sorry" before Bobby had a chance to say anything, and he hung up.

--

Grunting I sit up all the way in my seat. The lights are out, and the van had pulled out a while ago, so I figure it's pretty damn empty now. Which is gonna make things easier. Looking at Sam, I hope he can't see my face too well, hope he can't see how much it scares me, what he's saying. I've done everything you've ever asked of me Sam. I let you go, and you sat there and watched me die. Because it was the one thing I asked of you. All I've ever really asked of you, Sam. I never asked you to look up to me, I asked how I could keep you safe. Never asked you to look out for me, I just wanted to know how to take care of you, and I did. I protected you, fed you, made sure we didn't leave behind any of your books, made sure you and Dad couldn't butt heads too often, tried to stay in the middle. I've done everything you've ever asked of me. Read to you, read for you, hell, I'm even putting up with this god-awful teaching process you've tried to come up with. I try and sleep when you tell me to, eat whatever you want me to, I didn't go on that hunt, I did everything. When we were little, I gave you the Lucky Charms, gave you my jacket, and, I just…found a way to get you the toy you really wanted. Told you about Mom as best I could, but it hurt so bad to talk about her, it still does. But, Sammy, I think it's time to move on. I just don't know if I can, but I want to try, maybe if I can do that, maybe everything else'll get easier. At least I hope it will.

Checking my pockets, there's my lock picks, my lighter, I can feel a small book of matches, car keys –always important, wallet's in the back pocket right side. "Let's do this," I mumble, slipping out of the Impala, hand pausing on the roof of the car, listening to the familiar creak of the doors shutting, and knowing that it'll be okay. Moving to the trunk, we gear up, duffel with salt, gasoline, sawed off, .22, consecrated iron hunting knives, what else? Four bags of that stuff Missouri came up with for our old house. Rosary as a just in case. It never hurts to purify the water system. Even if all we're dealing with is some lame ass poltergeist. Just gotta get the four corners, then bind it, and hopefully exorcise the pain in the ass. So many theories. Some sort of strong anger at death, or more of a death echo forced to play itself out until the energy disperses. Either way we can kill the son of a bitch. Or daughter, in some cases, I'm sure. But it's not burning the bones that works with these, they're not your typical spirit. They're a little more…intense.

--

Both men moved smoothly into the house, entirely unaware of two sleeping children in the upper stories as Sam disabled the alarm, Dean handing him the lock picks so the younger man could get the door open. Dean's hands still not stable enough for the delicacies of picking locks. Dean stood guard, his eyes fine in the darkness, even picking up hints of color. He was relieved his vision was fine, unlike before. No idea what had caused it, the pain maybe, but the pain was gone. Which was good, and he was thankful Sam had been able to give him the drugs that helped his body to relax. It had hurt, his muscles still ached from how tense they had been, and he felt like he couldn't take that kind of pain again. The agony wasn't worth it at all to him. Next time he'd slip away, just let himself die. It would be easier. For all he loved Sam, he wasn't so sure he was strong enough.

--

The house's quiet, that's good, I guess. Then again, it's about to get ugly if we're not careful. I look over at Sam, knowing what I promised. He would lead the hunt. His words still ringing in my ears, and I know he was forcing them, didn't quite mean them, but needed me to understand. 'I don't need you on hunts anymore, so if you won't do what I say, you'll just be a liability to me, and I swear to god I'll lock you in the trunk' Sam never talked to me like that, it was almost like having Dad back. I'm supposed to follow him, and not leave his side. Watch his back, but know that if anything happens, I'm just supposed to take cover. Like hell I will, but whatever makes him happy and makes him think I'll behave. We start walking around the corners of the house, and I glance at Sam. He's not paying attention, and there's an upstairs. So, I quietly slip up them, my thighs and calves burning as I force myself up. From earlier. Sore from when they all locked up. Hurts damnit. I hear Sam hiss my name but he doesn't know where I am. Good. Gotta check the whole house Sammy, how the hell did you ever manage without me? Just start setting up the damn bags in the corners of the house so we can purify it. Idiot. I just hope he hides the holes well. Not like last time when we had the family's cooperation. Then again that was a pain in the ass son of a bitch. We're lucky we made it out of that one. Mom. When this is over…God Mom I'm sorry. Door's open to a kid's bedroom. What the hell? Oh god they're still inside. Sammy they're still inside! Thought they all left in the van! What the hell do we do? Damn it damn it damn it! Okay, gotta tell Sam. I shoot down the stairs, almost bumping into him.

"Dean!" he hisses, and I know he's about ready to knock me over the head and drag me back into the car.

"No, shuttup," I tell him, covering his mouth before he can say anything, "The kids are still here."

"What?!" he mumbles through my fingers.

"Yeah."

"Shit!"

"Shh, you'll wake them!"

"Dude, we gotta move fast!"

"I know, I know! Here, give me two, and you take two, we'll get this done before they even know we were here."

"I hope so."

"We will, we always manage." Then Sam's ripped away from me, flung across the room, and I can't stop myself from shouting his name, "Sam!" before it blasts me across the chest and I can feel my bones creak when I hit the rail behind me, flipping over it, and I barely manage to curl my body so I don't hit my head as I slide down five steps. Sam groans, he's okay. Got his gun up, and I pull out mine, I hear the kids.

"Mommy!?"

"Damnit!" I mutter, looking around. It's going to go after the kids, oh god it's going to go after the kids. _Dean, take your brother outside and run. _We gotta get 'em outside. "Sam!?"

"I'm fine, where is it?"

"I don't know!" Pain in the ass little brother. Looking around, I see a little boy and girl holding hands at the top of the stairs. "Don't scream, we're cops, okay?" I pull out a badge from my pocket. "Something bad came into your house, and we're gonna fix it, okay? I just need to take you outside. I'm a cop, you can trust me." Please trust me. The little girl's older, I can tell she's a bossy little pain in the ass at the age of what, six? Her brother looks like he's maybe four. Dark mop of curly hair with bright blue eyes, they're so light I can tell from where I am, in a heap at the bottom of the stairs. Standing up all the way, slowly, I look around. "Please, c'mon." She just marches down, brother in tow and holds out her hand for my badge. She messes with it a little.

"Our Daddy was a cop," she says, chin up as she stares me down. I like her.

"Yeah? Well then you know we're the good guys."

"Why didn't you just knock and come in like a normal person?" She asks, missing a few teeth so she's got a slight lisp. Reminds me of Sammy when he lost his two front teeth. I used to constantly sing that 'all I want for Christmas is my two front teeth' song all through December until Dad yelled at me, but the first couple times it used to make him laugh.

"Because the bad guy didn't knock, and we didn't know you were home, so c'mon," I hold out my hand to her, and she sticks the badge back in it, dragging her brother along behind her. He's got a blanket in the same hand of the thumb he has jammed into his mouth. Kid's eyes are huge. Looks a little like Sam, big round eyes and messy dark hair. Only this one's quiet. She goes to the door and twists the knob to jerk it open, I can tell from the force she puts behind it, and nothing happens. Damnit. Too late. "Sam? We're trapped until we get this thing."

"Alright, time to start working," Sam says, glancing at me. I can tell it's my job to baby sit. There's not much I can do, though, if this thing tries to do something. They're invisible, and they don't manifest like a normal spirit.

"Hurry up," I snap, and I can feel the panic rising. When their mother gets home, if she gets back before we're done, and the kids…and that's when something hits me, and I hear the kids start screaming. I lash out with the consecrated knife and I hit the floor with a thump, trying to land on my feet –anything but my knees and face. The little girl looks like she's going to seriously freak out, and the little boy starts crying when I hear Sam cry out in pain, and I'm hauling those kids into my arms, my sore muscles protesting as I move to Sam's side, and pick up the little bag, punching my fist into the wall so glad there's no studs where I chose, shoving the bag in before a wind picks up, and my head's slammed into the wall, I see stars.

--

I almost had the wall knocked in, but it went after me. I figured it would, considering Dean wasn't doing anything. I see him take care of that corner, so I'm up on my feet, going to the next, hating myself for bringing Dean, for not checking to make sure the kids were gone, I just wanted this to be simple and easy. I see it slam his face into the wall "Dean!" The kids are screaming again, Dean slumps forward, the little girl attaching herself to his arm and shrieking. The little boy's clutching onto his sister. Gotta get this done, and I can go to Dean, get this done, go to Dean. I can do this. I still can't believe he just punched through the wall, and I kick out a small hole, stuffing the bag in before the poltergeist comes after me again. Dean's already up again, both kids hanging onto his clothing, trying quiet them. I don't know how he does it, but kids love him. I feel myself ripped backwards before it flings me forward into the wall, I can hear the pictures slipping off the walls, glass tinkling out of the frames when they hit the ground. Shit, and I thought this would be a clean easy job, and this is turning into the same hunt from a few years ago, but Mom's not here to save us. Dean's already moving. Two more, two more walls. Thank god there're only two stories, this should be okay. We can do this. The little girl's holding a hammer, her brother has the bag, and Dean's moving them, watching for them, gun in hand. He fires, I don't know what he's seeing, but the girl has time to smash a hole into the wall for her brother to place the bag in. Last wall. My turn, He follows, covering me.

--

I can see the fugly, I don't know how, but I can see it. Oh god.

--

In the living room, Sam looks around, trying to keep his head calm as he moves to the far corner, and is flung over the couch and out of view. Dean has just enough time to shove the children behind him before glass from the windows implodes, impacting hard into his body in places, the couch Sam's behind, and into the floor and walls around him. Inching forward, the younger Winchester knocks the final hole in the wall, placing the bag inside, before he rolls onto his back, gasping in pain. The poltergeist screams and the house shudders as it's forced out, banished. Probably a fractured rib from being tossed around. He could hear the glass, but Dean would have had time to drop, he would have. Right?

--

Pushing myself up, I see Dean with the kids. He's lying flat on his back, panting, and I can see crimson on the little girl's hands. She's tried to pull the glass out of his side, and cut herself. She's not crying, at least not from her hands I can tell, because she's saying something to Dean. Her brother's eyes are huge, panicked. My cell's out and I'm calling 911. My head hurts. I must have hit it. God, I can't pass out now.

"Here don't touch the glass," I drop to my knees on the carpet next to them. The bleeding won't be too bad yet, with the glass still in. I can see the little girl got a lot of it out of Dean's side just pulling on it. Hope to god she didn't make it worse. "Here, I'm Sam, what's your name?" I can keep their minds off him. "Look at me, okay? He'll be fine." I grab Dean's hand, he'll be fine. I shouldn't have taken him. I should've made him stay in the car. Damnit he's the one who's good with kids, he should be the one okay right now. I realize he sheltered the kids, got in front of them. He's lying on his back, shards of glass sticking out of him all over the place. It looks worse than it is, I remind myself. I can't put pressure on the wounds, and I can't risk removing the glass. The rest look superficial, but that one in his side.

"I'm Angela, my brother's Tommy," she says, then looks at my brother.

"That's Dean," He's fighting to stay conscious. I lean over "You'll be okay, just stay with me, okay Dean? Stay with me. Stay with them, okay?" I can hear the sirens. Can't leave the kids here.

--

When the paramedics made it in, Sam was unconscious, Tommy crying while his sister was trying to keep Dean awake and comfort her brother at the same time, trying to wake Sam up, too. It was clear she was panicking. When they tried to lift Dean up to take him into the ambulance she started to truly panic, refusing to leave Dean alone. So Angela and Tommy were bundled into the ambulance with Dean, Sam's condition less critical, another ambulance was called, and he was in the second. Dean was rushed into surgery, and the glass was removed. The shard in his side had managed to miss every single organ, but had still ruptured the lining of his abdominal cavity, causing some problems. The muscle would take a while to heal where it was cut up, and the impact had managed to fracture his ribs. He also had a slight concussion. Sam had fractured three ribs, and had fractured his skull, a split on his scalp requiring stitches. The two kids were in Dean's room with him after the surgery, one curled up under each arm, Angela's head on his chest, eyes open and staring her hands bandaged, Tommy curled up hugging Dean's arm, his back curved against Dean's side as he slept, thumb in mouth, his blanket spread across the three of them.

--

When I finally come to, there's a nurse checking up on me. She smiles, "I'll go get the doctor."

"Wait! Where's my brother!? How is…I need to see my brother!" Dean, how's he doing? I need to know.

"Your brother is fine, and I'll go get the doctor," she repeats, "Please just stay calm, the doctor'll be right in, okay honey? He'll tell you about your brother, too. We called your emergency contact, as well." Bobby's gonna kill me. I feel my heart rate go up, and the monitor spikes a little, and I try to calm myself down. I find myself humming Blue Oyster Cult, ironically after a few bars I figure out it's "Don't Fear the Reaper" of all things. Dean'd get a kick out of…where's my brother? I need to see him, need to stay calm. My head hurts. Ribs, too, when I try and sit up. I'll get to Dean, just…and a doctor walks in, middle aged guy, looks nice enough. Unlike some who look so world weary I'm always afraid they're going to mess up and accidentally kill me or Dean.

"How's my brother?!" bursts from my lips, and he looks mildly surprised.

"You," he pauses raising his eyes significantly, "have a concussion, it's a mild one and you should be fine, you also have three fractured ribs which means you'll need to take it easy."

"Dean, I need to know how Dean is."

"Look, Mr.…" He looks at the chart he's holding, "Mr. Williams-"

"Sam, please."

"Your brother, is it? Dean is fine."

"I need to see him.

"You really should rest," but I can tell he knows I won't relax until I've seen my brother. He frowns, and then smiles a little at me. "Does the FBI really let brothers work as partners?"

"They've found that brothers are way more likely to go out of their way protect each other, and one will always play levelheaded to annoy the other, so between the two of us we make one damn fine cop," I grin. "And they work harder, competition." Dean'll appreciate that, I hope.

"I'll get a wheelchair," he says, and I want to protest, but I know they won't even want me getting up. When he comes back, a nurse is with him.

"Doc, how's my brother doing?"

"He's fine, that little girl has a hell of a lot of guts, she was keeping him awake when we got there, but he's fine. There was an abdominal rupture, but that was repaired, he's just resting at this point, seems like the drugs took more out of him than the glass. We got all of it, and it'll take a few weeks before he's one hundred percent, which means he needs to rest. A rib was fractured and he seems to have a concussion the same as you." There's definitely a bit of snap in the doc's voice when he says that, reminding me I need to worry about myself, too.

"Don't worry," I laugh, "Dean'll watch out of me, and I'll watch out for him. Tonight didn't go so great, I know, but we'll take care of each other, we always do." When they wheel me in, Dean's awake, lightly stroking Angela's hair absentmindedly. I glance at the doctors until they leave, and Dean glances up at me. Grins weakly. His arm's around Tommy, looks like Tommy has it in a death grip, body curled up sharing Dean's warmth. The Thomas the Tank Engine blanket is spread across the three of them, and I can tell Dean's amused. Looks like Tommy wanted to share it with his protector. Angela's head's on his chest, her dark hair a curly mess against the blue and red. His arm's around her, too, lightly around her shoulders, and he looks tired. But it looks right. This is how things should be for Dean, maybe not a hospital, but he should have kids of his own. Two kids who love him more than anything. It's almost sick, seeing him like that, and knowing it's something he'll never have. And I want to scream. Something in me hates Dad for doing this to us, dragging us into this life, but it's the yellow eyed demon's fault. I'd at least still have Jessica, and maybe there would have been no deal, and Dean…maybe he would have tried to start his own life, too. But this is how he should be, he should have someone other than me to show up when he's in the hospital. There should be someone…god Dean, I'm so sorry…He looks up at me.

"You know the whole time, she was just 'you can't sleep, okay? You have to stay awake, Sam says you have to stay awake. Don't sleep, it's not bedtime yet, you're a grown up, you don't need to sleep," he chuckles softly. Then looks up at me, "Don't know where their mom is," his eyes well up with tears.

"Dean we gotta get out of here, soon as we can. Someone'll take care of them."

"NO!" his voice is quiet, but there's no mistaking the fear behind it. "I won't leave them alone Sam, they…they trust me, we gotta find their mom, okay? Their dad got shot in the line of duty, there's no one. We have to find their mom." I can't hide my shock. I get it, it's like when Dad left all those times, leaving Dean to take care of me. But, these two kids? At least they're closer in age; Angela can probably handle Tommy better than Dean could handle me. Tommy can walk, talk, feed himself, and clearly he's not in diapers. God Dean I'm so sorry.

--

I won't leave these kids alone. Angela's a tough kid, and I'd rather not have to wonder if she'll end up like me. Their mom went out, they don't know where, or why. No clue at all. I don't get it. No one can seem to find her, and there's someone waiting at the house. I mean clearly she was planning on coming back for her kids. I don't get it. There was food on the stove simmering and stuff. But, I can't let there even be a chance that Angela'll have to take care of her brother, grow up too soon. I won't. And I know it's not likely, worst…worst that happens is that they end up with another relative. I don't think they'll end up in foster care. We gotta find their mom. Foster care sucks.

Sam and I ended up in it for a few weeks. We were in school and Dad went missing, so we stopped showing up. C.P.S. got called, and we spent almost a month in that god awful pit. We got lucky, I mean they weren't just doing foster care for the money, but it wasn't Dad. They were gonna split us up at first, but I threw a fit. I never threw fits, but man, I went nuts. Attacked the guy who said he was gonna take Sammy away from me. Sam didn't stop crying, and we clung together after that. Because Sammy was crying and he needed me, so I didn't have time to kill that son of a bitch. But, Dad came back, we were gone. He freaked out so bad. He'd called Pastor Jim, who made some calls and managed to find out what happened to us, because Dad'd thought we'd be with Jim, he'd been gone so long. But before I even had a chance to call Jim, we were taken away. Got so lucky they didn't find our weapons stash. But, the rent was due, and it was just a mess. That's part of how the school found us. The company called the school to see if they knew where our dad was.

It was the first time Sam and I hadn't been dumped in the same bed, so Sam'd come into my room and crawled in bed with me anyway. It felt wrong, not hearing his breathing at night, not feeling him up against my back. I hated it, god I was such a brat. Used to smash anything I got my hands on, and constantly screamed how much I hated them, and I wanted my dad. Sam and I cried so much those weeks. He'd cry and then once he fell asleep I'd start crying. Dad found us, but they wouldn't let him have us back, so Pastor Jim managed to get custody temporarily or something confusing, and he handed us off to Dad and the three of us dropped off the grid for a while. Jim got investigated, but it looked like he'd been doing Pastor-y things and we'd gone missing, my handwriting saying we were going to find our dad. That was the one time Dad was ever gone that long, and he had Bobby call in on us every week to make sure we were still there, and okay. Because we didn't want to risk them having 'bugged' Jim or anything. He got Caleb in on it, too. I think he only did it because when he finally got back and I saw him I was still just as mad. But I was too little to know how to get it out, and I turned all that anger on him. It was the one time I ever really completely lost it around Dad. And at him. I was always the good one, did whatever I was told the moment I was told, and asked if there was anything else I could do. But, I was screaming at him, pulling away so he couldn't touch me, flailing. I told him I hated him, too, because he left us. Jim picked me up, hung onto me, and I wasn't mad at him, so I started to calm down a little. Up until he handed me over to my dad and I freaked out again. But he held onto me. I remember, "I'm sorry, I love you and your brother, Dean, you know that. I won't ever let this happen again. I promise." He was telling me the truth.

We never got dumped in foster care again, we had other hunters. Sam didn't hear any of it, Jim had put him to bed, Sam was always easier for the most part. When he was little. He didn't know Dad that well, so he just knew if Dad was around it was okay, and if Dad wasn't, I just had to take care of things and it'd be just fine. But me? I couldn't stop freaking out. I yelled until I couldn't talk, cried myself out, and wore myself out physically trying to get away from him. The whole time he just kept rubbing my back and stroking my hair, promising me it wouldn't happen again, and that he loved us and he was sorry. I still kept saying 'I hate you' even without a voice. But he knew I was still mouthing the words. Sometimes, I figure that's just another reason on a long list of things that make up the reason I was always so obedient to Dad. But he kept holding me.

Remember he went into where Sam was sleeping, and woke him up. Picked him up, too, and we showered. Generally Dad tried to do that with us as often as possible, when he wasn't banged up from a hunt. Or covered in gore. But he wanted to make sure Sam could clean himself up, and that I knew what I was doing. He also knew I hated baths, even when I was little. Says I got it from Mom, because she'd take a bath to relax, and then have to shower to make sure she was clean. But when I got muddy, and got dumped into the tub, the mud stayed in the water I was in, and it always used to gross me out. But Dad was tickling Sam, washing his hair real good. I remember him picking Sam up so he could stick his head under the shower-head and not get soap in his eyes. Did the same thing for me. I remember him saying 'looks like you two need some haircuts' and ruffling my hair getting water all over our faces. Not that it mattered. Sam started to whine. 'Just a little, we'll just trim yours out of your eyes, okay, Sammy?' and that shut him up just fine. Sam liked it as a messy curly mop. He sat down on the floor of the shower and played with the bubbles and the washcloth. Dad helped Sam into his pajamas, helped me even if I didn't need it. Kept saying how much he loved us and that we were the best boys anyone could ever have. I'd finally stopped saying I hated him. He noticed my clothes were getting too small, 'Jeez Dean,' he teased me 'You're gonna end up twenty feet tall on me, aren't you?' turns out it was Sam, who didn't hit a growth spurt until high school. Me, I kept growing up until high school, it felt like. But he curled up in bed with us, one of us on each side, hugging me. Sam was used to sleeping against my back, so he'd curled away from Dad, pressing his back against our father's. But Dad put his arms around me. I started crying again, and I didn't have a voice to say I was sorry, but I hope he knew. Hope he knew I didn't mean it. I was six. Depending on the time of year I might have been five. Just hope he knew I didn't mean it, I was so sorry, but I'd used everything up to say I wasn't.

The next day was good, he took us out for breakfast, the three of us ended up with shorter hair, I couldn't stand mine much longer than a military cut, Dad's was in his face and that was a problem in a hunt, and Sammy needed to be able to see, too. Then we went to lunch in one of those fast food places with a toy to climb around in. Sam and I loved those, because Dad was watching, and he could see we were strong enough not to get stuck or scared like some kids. I'd help Sam around everything. He was 'too little' to go in, but I'd take him with me, pull him up when he couldn't reach. It was fun. We had ice cream after, and I knew Dad was sorry. I was sorry, too. We did a little clothes shopping, but we all hated it and Sam just wanted to look at the coloring books and toys. He'd filled up his other coloring book, and he liked the ones with writing on the bottom so I would read to him. Sam was the only reason I could read, I hated it so much. But I learned for him. Then Dad took us back to Jim's and we all fell asleep again. I was so worn out from that whole month, and Sam was two so he was already needing a nap every couple of minutes it felt like.

And Dad, years later I found out he was late getting back because a tree had fallen on him in the hunt. He'd gotten the black dog, but had fractured his lower back and ended up in a coma for almost a week. So, he would have only been two days late getting home, but it took a while for them to find him. We got lucky he didn't die. God I hated myself. But Dad could have told me, I would have understood. But he didn't. I don't really think I understand why he didn't. Unless he didn't blame me for being upset. Maybe he thought I needed to be, or something. I don't know. I don't get it. I just know it never happened again, we always had someone to take care of us.

But I won't let that happen to Angela and Tommy. No way in hell.

--

Dean was kept in the hospital another three days just to monitor his wounds, and because the nurses –and a few doctors, didn't want to discharge him. Also, as long as he was in the hospital, the kids could stay with him, because no one was around to protest. But he didn't have a home, and didn't have any right to hold onto the kids other than he'd saved them, which was what let them be with him in the first place. Sam, using his knowledge about the law as rusty as it was getting, managed to try argue that there was no reason Dean couldn't watch over them in their home, along with him, waiting for the children's mother to return, while they repaired the house. Turns out that Mrs. Beckett had come and gone, finding her house in shambles, and being so blindly panicked hadn't bothered with the police, who could have told her everything. She spent a few days searching before returning home to find two strange men in her home having breakfast with her kids. After she threatened to mace Dean and remove his manhood, Angela explained quite calmly that Dean was a hero, and that she liked him, and would never forgive her Mama if she ever hurt Dean or Sam. Tommy agreed. So, more frozen waffles were heated, and Mrs. Beckett joined them for a fairly pleasant breakfast as Dean related what had happened. Excluding the supernatural parts, at least. Sam added in details while Dean chewed, and between the two of them Mrs. Beckett found herself appreciating the young men and thanking them, offering them dinner if they'd like it. Angela wanted Dean to take her and Tommy to the park, Sam could come, too, if he wanted, but Dean had to, and maybe Mrs. Beckett, but Dean and Sam weren't good at cleaning up, really, so maybe she should stay home and do it. But they had tried, because see, all the broken glass was all picked up and they'd spackled the holes in the walls and painted over them. But the concepts of dusting and vacuuming seemed a little beyond them. One might think they'd never lived in a house before.

--

Hitting the road again sucked. I didn't really want to. I mean, it was nice, playing with the kids. Victoria Beckett insisted we stay at the house, and kept telling me to call her Vicky, but every time I still ended up calling her Mrs. Beckett. I tried, it just felt wrong. For one thing, Dad always taught us to be respectful of women, and then our elders. And she had about ten years on me and Sammy. Angela was a hell of a brat when we said we had to leave. Hurt us, too. She at least gets to grow up with a mom and a home. But, we've got the Impala. And that's been good enough and it's going to be good enough. Tossing some stuff into the car instead of the trunk because I didn't want to risk anyone noticing things they weren't supposed to, we'd been playing private detectives trying to chase this 'guy' down. Paul Geistman. I thought it was clever, Sam looked like he wanted to shoot me. Dude, P-Geist. C'mon. Poltergeist, Sammy, I tried to explain. Gave me that "I know" look like when I showed him the EMF I made. Pain in the ass little brother. "Sam what the hell's this?"

"What's what Dean?"

"Dude, so don't give me that tone." We're both bitchy. Haven't even gotten out of the driveway good and we're going at each other. Whatever. Tugging on the scrap of bright red cloth, I sigh. "Tommy stashed his blanket under the seat. Probably when we went to the hospital." I'd had to get the stitches out, and Tommy had wanted to come with us. Mrs.- Vicky had said it'd be fine if we didn't care. Angela had preschool or whatever. "We'd better give it back. No way he's gonna sleep without it."

"Here, I'll take it," Sam mumbles.

"Yeah, okay." I don't want to go back, if I do, Sam'll have to come and drag me away. When he comes back he's still got the blanket, neatly folded.

"Tommy…wanted us to take it. Especially in case you got hurt again, so you wouldn't get cold in the hospital." Biting my lip for a couple seconds, I shrug.

"Toss it in the back seat." When we hit the road, it takes everything in me to keep driving.

--

I'm sorry Dean. I think I hate this even more than you. Always having to leave. Hell, at least for once we got thanked. That's a change, right? Remember when we took out the banshee, and that lady freaked and went at us with her broom? This bites, if I could have stayed at Stanford, if Jess was alive, Dean…I'd still be in law school, but Jess and I would be married. And you'd be welcome to visit all the time. Whenever, you coulda broken in at one in the morning as often as you wanted. Me or Jess'd just put on some coffee and we'd wake up and we could all talk. Or you could just come crash. Knowing you you'd piss someone off and you'd need somewhere to hide a few days so you didn't have to fight anyone. Considering you'd always win. I know when we wrestled when we were young you always let me win. Think you tricked Dad better'n me, he figured I was catching up to you. Sometimes I still think I can't take you. Even though I'm finally bigger, hell I might even be stronger. Wouldn't that be a laugh? But hell, if Jess'n I had…if we'd had kids, you'd so have to baby-sit them. And they'd love you. And it sucks when we save people with families, people who thank us and give us a taste of their lives. What it's like to be normal just for a few minutes, even. Angela really loved you, Tommy, too. I figure they liked me alright, but you're the one who saved 'em. I'd do anything to give you that life, you know that right? Anything. Well, I've promised not to trade my soul or anything, but, that aside. Could you imagine how obnoxious your kids would be? I would so refuse to baby-sit them. Ever. But they'd grow up all right. I figure I turned out okay, and that had nothing to do with Dad. God knows you barely made it, and that's probably only because you can remember Mom. Dean turns on the radio. "Dude, I know this song!" he looks at me with one eyebrow raised.

"So?"

"I never know the songs that come on your radio."

"My radio?"

"Yeah, your radio."

"Well you should by now, god. How do you _not _know 'Hotel California' by now?"

"Well this is so not the Eagles, Dean."

"Yeah, not sure how I feel about this."

"Dude, you like the one song by them."

"By who?"

"These guys, this is 3 Doors Down, and you like one of their songs."

"I've never even heard of these guys. But they're not too bad," he concedes, letting his fingers drum softly on the wheel. It takes me a bit to settle into the sounds of the Impala on the road, Dean's soft tapping and the song. It's the lyrics that start to hit me after a while.

'_Everything I am, and everything in me, wants to be the one you wanted me to be. I'd never let you down, and even if I could, I'd give up everything, if only for your good.' _

I glance at him, can't tell if he's listening, too, or not. Hope he's not. Wonder when Dean's gonna get hungry. Hopefully he'll say something before he passes out. Not that he's done that in years. That was just Dad not wanting to stop, and we finally got out of the car for a hunt, and Dean made it halfway through before his eyes just rolled up in his head and he dropped. Brought the demon out into the open and Dad took care of it, wondering if Dean'd fake-passed out on purpose to lure it out, and wondering how Dean knew it'd work. Then he realized Dean was actually out for the count. Idiot hadn't had anything to eat or drink for a couple days and the sudden activity and stress just pushed him over the edge. He does that again I'm kicking his ass. Especially with things being the way they are right now. Dean holds out his hand. "What?"

"I want you to 'shake' Sammy," he says sarcastically when "How to Save a Life" starts playing. "What do you think? Gimme the tapes." I sigh and get the box out, letting him rummage around.

"You could just tell me what you want, y'know."

"But that would take away all the fun in picking. And I remember last time you switched my tapes around." That was brilliant, if I do say so myself. I'd found some elevator music and switched it with Meatloaf. Dean wouldn't forgive me for weeks. Mainly because I wouldn't give him back the Bat out of Hell tape for about four days. And I kept switching random cassettes with the few I'd found of things like Enya and Paul Enka. I was so sure Dean was going to end me right then and there. I figured it'd be funny by now, but…apparently not.

"Heeey, look, we're heading into Kansas," I point out, hoping to stop this conversation before it starts. Dean glares at me.

"Heeey, I'm not a moron," he snaps, eyes focused straight ahead on the road.

"Can we not fight, for like, ten minutes, can we just not do this right now, please?" My heart clenches when I realize that Dad said almost the same thing to me before he died. Dean shoots me a worried glance. "Sorry," I whisper.

_(reviews to continue, please?)_


	19. Chapter 18: Goodbye to You

_A/N this is the final chapter. Dedicated as always to L, my own personal Sammy. Thanks and love to Merisha as always for being the best beta a newb writer could have, and a special thanks to Sushi Chi for always being willing to comment on whatever it is I'm writing, and for all the long conversations. _

_This doesn't have to be the final end. If anyone is interested, leave a review to tell me that you'd like to see the other "deleted scenes" from the fic that run through my head, but were cut out in order to streamline the fic and keep the plot on track. There might even be a few alternate chapters I would type up and post, if anyone is interested._

_That aside, thanks to every single one of you who reviewed, alerted, or favourited this story. Your interest meant the world to me and kept me writing, encouraging me to the point I posted up some other fics. I hope you enjoyed it. It was a hell of a long road. - And finally:thanks to all the songwriters whose song titles I borrowed to make chapter titles. _

**Chapter 18: Goodbye to You **

The Impala pulled into Lawrence, sliding to a gentle stop in front of a two story house with an old tree in front. The grass was green and there was a small garden near the side of the house –daffodils. Clearly it was being taken care of. Judging from the toys in the yard, a tricycle, a swing on the tree, and what looked like a sprinkler, there were kids there. Perhaps the same family Dean and Sam had managed to save a handful of years before. Sam stared for a while trying to remember anything about his old home and all he could see was his mother softly saying his and his brother's names, _"You, get out of my house and let go of my son."_ Glancing at his brother, he wished he could see what Dean saw, but he was lucky he couldn't. Dean saw flames licking up and eating at the house, saw his father running down the steps and across the lawn shouting felt himself being heaved up into the air as the glass exploded outwards, heard the sirens wailing and shrieking and the sound of water spraying and hissing into the flames. Saw his mother on the ceiling…just a nightmare he'd had after hearing his father's descriptions, not a true memory of his own, but all the same it would haunt him until the day he died. Again. "Think they're home?" Dean whispered, his throat pulsing as he fought to keep himself under control. The backyard was one of his stronger memories. Exiting the car, he figured that Jenny and her kids would recognize him and Sam if they were, and hopefully leave them alone. It didn't look like anyone was, the lights were out and there weren't any cars in the driveway. Walking around and through the fence he froze, paused in the entrance, Sam almost walking into him. _Dad, Daaad, look! What Dean? Your mother and I are a little busy. The flowers can wait, look! Mom, come look, it's so cool, look! Mary and John had moved away from the garden they were trying to get planted and came over to Dean who had found a chrysalis under a leaf on one of the bushes. Isn't it cool? I told you so! Mary smiled, lightly ruffling his hair. That is pretty cool, what'd you say you run inside and get the football so you boys can play, I think I'm gonna head in. Is Sammy kicking again, Mom? Can I feel? He always stops when I try and feel it, Dad gets to, Dean huffed. His touch was calming on his brother, always had been, always would be. Mary lightly took his hands and placed them gently on her stomach, I can feel him Mom, Dean whispered, before his face fell. He stopped, Dean complained. But he stopped hurting me, Mary pointed out, relieved. You and your dad go play, I need to lie down. Dean nodded, running to the door to go get the football. If he starts kicking again, come get me, he always calms down for me. I know sweetie, I know. Now hurry up, before your dad figures out what we're up to! She smiled and winked, Dean grinned in the innocent way children have of smiling with absolute faith, and disappeared into the house. When he emerged, John was facing him, but not seeing. Think fast, Dad! John barely had time to catch the ball, thrown in a perfect spiral, he'd noted with pride. For all it was smaller than a normal football, Dean was currently smaller than the average football player. _

"Sorry," Dean said quietly, moving into the yard, his booted feet silent on the grass. Glancing around again, he just saw the house. He'd never seen it from the back so the flames didn't leap into his memories engulfing them and burning them away. Sam just watched his brother, watched the way Dean's eyes filled with tears and overflowed, and realized Dean was oblivious, so caught up in whatever he was seeing. Dean looked back at him. "We…a rat got into the house. Not living in it, got into it. Like, through a door the way birds do sometimes," he grinned a little weakly. Sam figured whatever this story led up to, it was probably why his brother hated rats so much. "I don't remember a lot of it beyond a lot of yelling and screaming. I think I was the one screaming, and Dad was yelling, I think Mom was the calm one, or maybe she was laughing at us. I thought it was a really big spider at first, and then it grabbed my teddy bear and started to drag it away," Dean shuddered a little. He'd never been overly attached to the stuffed animal, but when you're all of three feet tall and the bear is at least a third your height, some animal dragging it away isn't exactly comforting. "And I was freaking out because the thing was ugly and it smelled, kinda the way you smell when your hair gets wet before you've showered," Dean added with a forced grin. "And Dad was gonna come stomp on it, because I said 'spider' instead of 'rat', so he was getting his boots on, and then saw it was a friggin' rat, right? So he was gonna get his gun, and Mom…she mighta been laughing, but I think she just wanted to open the door and herd it out…until it ran under the fridge. My teddy bear didn't fit, but…the rat sure did. Took the bear's arm right off," he added. Choosing to not name the stuffed friend in question, he didn't think he could handle Sam making fun of him. He couldn't say 'bear' when he'd been that little, and it had come out 'bayur' …which had become the bear's name, even when he got older. Considering the teddy bear went up in smoke along with the house, it hadn't been around very long, so it didn't matter what Dean had called it. "And, we couldn't get it out of there, and I wouldn't go into the kitchen, and Mom wanted to try luring it out with meat, and Dad wanted to try cheese," Dean frowned for a moment. "Did you know mice'll eat candle wax? You put cheese and candle wax and depending on the scent, the stupid thing'll go for the wax," Dean sighed. "But anyway, it eventually just died back there, and stunk up everything," he muttered, annoyed. "And when Mom and Dad finally got the fridge moved and everything, it was gross."

"Why'd you think it was a spider?" Sam asked, Dean knew the difference fairly well. And he wasn't stupid, and hadn't been. If anything he would have been smarter, considering all the head trauma hadn't happened yet.

"Well, wolf spiders…I think they are? The big hairy ones that aren't tarantulas…they click. Their…their legs click on the damn wood floors. Or tile, or linoleum. So, you hear _click-a click-a,_" Dean used his mouth, teeth touching and his tongue pulling away from the roof of his mouth to make the sounds. Not the clucking styled noise where the mouth is open, a more controlled obvious clicking. He would have drummed his nails on a countertop, but that wasn't an option. "And maybe they're wood spiders, but they're big, okay? Big enough you can see their mouths, and night lights make 'em take up the whole wall…Dad told me about how one time Mom was rocking you to sleep, and she saw the shadow and wigged. He was drunk, so he was in a sharing mood…you know how he was sometimes," Dean mumbled. Sometimes a happy drunk, sometimes a pissed off one. Depended. "But, um, she was running away from it, holding me, and she'd climbed onto the coffee table. It was coming after her, clicking. Dad found some bug spray, Raid, or something, and he was spraying it and running backwards and the damn thing was chasing him, wanting more. He ended up on the coffee table with us. We never found it again, and it didn't rot or stink anything up. But I ended up sleeping up against Mom's back every night for a week. Funny thing is, I don't remember it, I just remember Dad talking about it." Sam smiled, trying to curb the bitterness he was feeling. Even if all Dean had was the story, he at least the knew the people in it. Hell, he was in the story, too. Sam wasn't in any family stories. He wasn't part of the family Dean remembered before the fire, not really. And sometimes it hurt more than he could begin to cope with. Other times he knew that Dean was his family, and that was enough. Dean looked up at him, green eyes filled with the echoes of his childhood, marred by flames. "I miss her so much, Sam," he whispered.

"I know," Sam said quietly.

"And I just…Dad's gone, too. That's not supposed to happen. Your parents are supposed to get old, right? And then you're supposed to have kids, and they spoil and love those kids. Then, then they can die. Not that Dad woulda ever babysitted. Hell, if we'd had kids, we'd never let Dad near 'em…" Sam looked up at Dean, before realizing that he agreed entirely. Not with the obsession with hunting. If he'd managed to escape it, with Jess, Dean might have been allowed around the children, because he wouldn't try and spread hunting. John? Who knew, and Sam would never have been willing to take that chance. Something in that cut him, but at the same time, Dean admitting it freed him a little. Let some of his resentment float away. Glancing at Dean, Sam lightly let his fingertips touch his brother's shoulder.

"Let's go man."

"Yeah."

"But, uh, Dean," Sam said anxiously. "There's something I've gotta do, alright? I just, I can't come here and not leave something on Mom's grave, okay? I won't forget her. I can say goodbye, and you're right, it's stupid because there's nothing there, but Dean… there's a headstone, and it marks the fact that she lived. And as long as it's standing there, marking her memory, I'll be damned if I don't respect that."

--

I look at Sam. "Yeah, okay. Just please, dude, don't expect me to come with you." He opens his mouth, and I'm afraid of what he's going to say. Condemn me for not being able to handle it. "I just, I can't Sam. I don't…I don't want to think of her as a headstone, okay? I'd rather have the nightmares about her being on the ceiling than think of her as a piece of cold stone."

"Dean, you know I don't see Mom like that, right?" his voice is hurt. I wasn't trying to hurt him.

"Yeah, you see her like I do. An angel. A big smile, open arms. You see her the way she was when she fought off that poltergeist for us. Beautiful. Strong. That's our Mom, though, Sammy. And that's…I'm just…I'm not strong enough, okay Sam? I can't do it. I can't I can't handle the idea of her being dead and gone, and that's what a tombstone means, it means she's left us, and I can't…I can't handle the finality of it, alright dude? So don't ask me to, please, don't ask me to." Dunno why I'm telling Sam that. Not sure I can handle the idea of him being disappointed in me. But, he made me promise to stop… what did he say? Stop killing myself on the inside all the time? I made fun of him, because what else could I do about that, but…I can try. And I don't want him to think I'm a coward or that I'm weak. I just want him to understand. And, I think, I think he does, a little.

--

I see Dean's eyes water a little, the way his lip trembles just the slightest bit, and I know what he's looking for in my face. The same thing I've searched for on his I don't know how many times. Understanding. Acknowledgement. And knowing it doesn't change anything. It's okay. I nod a little, blinking a few times. It's okay Dean. I get it, and I'm not asking you to come. But I can't say that out loud. It'd ruin everything. The peace we've found. It's good to have my brother back. Funny to sometimes see him in the back seat with that Thomas blanket tossed over his shoulders, but still. Good to have him back. It's like this weight's been tugged off my shoulders. And he's still dead set on protecting me, but…he's sharing a little. And I need that, because I need to be able to talk it out, sometimes. Need to understand and know. And I've learned to back off, now that Dean's been gone. Give him time to tell me what he needs to say. Because forcing it always made things worse between us. Funny that it takes him dying for me to really be able to accept him for who he is, now that he's so different. But it's easier. He's not as dead set on keeping everything inside until it destroys him. We've learned how that works, and it's always managed to end in tears. No more, I think.

--

I settle into the driver's seat. "You wanna pick up some flowers?"

"Yeah."

"I don't know if that florist is still around, but we can check. Dad took me there once to get lilies for Mom. Or at least the white ones with the yellow thing in the middle."

"Calla Lilies?"

"How the hell should I know?"

"You were there?"

"I was four." Or younger. Honestly, after hell, my memories are clearer than they've ever been, like brand new. But, sometimes I think the stories Dad told me when he was drunk off his ass have merged into my memories. I don't think it matters, anymore, at this point. It shouldn't. I just remember Dad going into the florist's, dragging me along, and pointing out these white flowers with yellow stem-like things in the middle. They were real pretty. I guess. I just kinda figure all flowers are 'pretty' and that's the end of it. Pulling around a corner, I glance at the left side of the road, my side. "Shit," I mutter, having to pull up in front of a butcher's shop because I can't pull a u-turn.

"What the hell Dean?"

"I haven't lived here since I was four!" I snap, looking at the little 'meat shop' in front of me. I stare for a few minutes, until Sam pokes me. My hand snaps up, grabbing his finger, hard.

"Dude?"

"Sorry," I mutter. "You head on into the flower shop, you'll fit right in." I brighten. "Hey, you might even find a special friend." Sam pulls his hand free, uses it to lightly hit me upside the head, and then shoots out of the car before I can get him back. With a slight smile I contemplate the shop in front of me. Tempted to pick up some entrails or something to stow in his duffel, it'd still stink up my car. And we're going to Mom's grave, well he is, and I'll be in the car, hopefully where I can't see it, and Sam? I just I don't want to do something like that…not now. Maybe later. Next motel we stop at, little dude is screwed.

Fish sign on the door.

Salmon candy. I check my wallet, then walk in. Got enough to get a lot, I don't want a lot. Just a stick of it. It's basically smoked salmon. I hate fish. Fish sticks are different. Fish and chips are not fish. I hate fish. But this stuff? It's amazing. Maybe Sam'll like it. After he gets done staring at me like I'm someone he's never seen before. But I'm sick of playing the tough callous one. Sure, I'm tough. And I always will be. But, I want some damn smoked salmon, and I don't need Sam judging me over it. But, he's changed a lot, too. Funny, that now that he's finally willing to let me be that smart mouthed jackass I played at being, I'm ready to be someone else. I buy just a stick of the stuff. Don't want a lot. Don't really remember it that much, just remember it being something Dad mentioned once. It's familiar. I just want to decide who I want to be, and there's no one here to make me be something I'm not, not anymore. Heard Bobby and Sam talking, at one point. Whether or not I should hunt anymore. God things are shot to hell. I walked in on them. On purpose. Said that there wasn't anyone making me hunt, but that I'd given my whole life to it. I was legally dead, a murderer, too. Wasn't anyone left for me to be but a hunter. But, I'm okay with that. Not like before, when I used to think about how I'd wanted to be a firefighter. I don't have dreams about having a family of my own anymore. I don't want to. Sam and I, we'll hunt until we die. And then it'll end with us. There isn't anyone else who deserves to have a broken man as a father. And Sam and me? We're busted to hell. There's a line in some song, about being bound by the life 'you' left behind. Whoever 'you' is, honestly, I tend not to listen to music like that. But, that line stuck with me a long time.

I'm not bound by anything. Dad's gone. And I had a choice this time. My body wasn't up to soldiering, hunting. I've been training it. Sam laughed when I could only do fifty pushups. I laughed, too, my arms shaky and limp. Hadn't been that weak since I was in grade school when I first started training. But this time I chose it. Told Sam that I wasn't doing this for Dad. For me. Lotta things in hell, and there are a lotta things that should be, and I was gonna do my part to see them back. And then it's over. Bobby's been working on finding a way to amplify a normal exorcism. Maybe we could clear out demons state by state. Wouldn't get all the bogies, too, but…that'd help a lot. Sam and I, we're gonna end every single one of those sons of bitches, or die trying.

Exchanging money for fish, I wander into the flower shop, having broken off a piece of the salmon and popped it into my mouth. Does taste good. Another thing that tastes good? Mushrooms with ranch dressing. Swear to god, Sam's gonna hurt himself, but why the hell can't I like mushrooms? I still like burgers with extra onions. Still like pie. Mm, pie. We should get some. After we leave Kansas. Hard to get fish in Kansas, but hell, musta been imported from Washington or Oregon. Still isn't as expensive as getting it in those states, for whatever reason. Don't know if California exports fish. They have a coast line.

Texas has catfish. By the way? Ew. "Want some?" I ask Sam, not realizing that he's flirting with the hot chick behind the counter.

"What is it?"

"It's not jerky, it's not freeze dried. Hell, it's even fresh." Rolling my eyes a little, I offer him the bag. He breaks off a chunk about two inches long, and takes a cautious bite. I've been known to give him things not so edible in the past. Not poisonous but not edible, either. Like tree bark. I think I actually got spanked for that one. Deserved it, too.

"It's good. But Dean, you don't like fish."

"I know, weird, huh? I'm full of surprises." I look at the girl. Not too tall, not too short. Not super skinny, not overly buff. Pretty big blue eyes, wavy hair, loose messy bun. Glasses, but not nerdy ones, wisps of hair all around her face. I want to reach out and tuck some of it behind her ear. Full lips, naturally red I can tell. She's not even wearing mascara. Nice eyelashes. I glance at Sam. He shrugs at me. "Didn't know it took so long to buy some flowers," I say. She smiles.

"Depends on what you want." I grin.

"A coupla lilies."

"How many?"

"Enough to look nice." I'm good at this. Being annoying. But this is fun. I like the look in her eyes. Sam got here first, but I get to have fun, too.

"Well, what're they looking nice for? Anniversary maybe?"

"Something like that." Not for me and Sam, but she's hinting it. She knows he's not gay –he was staring at her boobs the whole time he was talking to her. Says he's an ass man, and what does he always stare at? Boobs. Seriously kid. Even Eva, surprised she never noticed. Maybe she did, explained why she tried to kill him. Poor Andy. I liked Andy.

"For a man or a woman?"

"You really have to ask that?"

"Older or younger?"

"Older."

"Hmm, a mother maybe?"

"Something like that," I mumble. Don't wanna ruin the mood, but looks like I'm not gonna have a choice. "Anniversary of…her moving on to a better place," I grin.

"Oh," she says, mouth a perfect 'o'. "I'm-"

"No it's okay," Sam intervenes. "It was a long time ago. We're just not planning on coming back to Kansas again…" he looks at me, and I nod. I'm done here. Nothing here left for me. Just a lotta baggage, and I'm willing to let it stay. He pulls out his wallet and she goes and comes back with the flowers I was talking about. Sam knows what calla lilies are just by description? God we need to talk about some things. "Thanks," he says, not trying to flirt anymore. I didn't mean to screw things up for him.

"Want more fish?" I ask, feeling pretty useless. Which isn't all that different from usual, but still.

"Sure. You wanna stop anywhere for lunch?"

"Not really, and dude, it's dinner time."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, looks like it took a while finding this place. Or maybe I was just in the yard longer than I thought," I mumble. Time passes funny for me now. Sometimes I feel like I'm seeing things before they've really happened, because they don't feel real until the moment's done and gone. Other times I ask Sam about Dad or Jim or Caleb. He just stares at me, and after few seconds I catch up again. It hasn't messed me up in any way that matters so far. If anything, I've been more helpful with hunting. Not that we've been on another one since we left Angela and Tommy. Sam's still trying to get me to work on that reading thing. Seriously get headaches from it. I keep telling him that the pages look like a kicked up ants nest to me, and now that I can figure the letters when they're alone, it still doesn't do me any good when I can't focus on them when they're forming a word. It's just scribbles. Sam wants to have my vision checked. I don't think so. I see better than before. He says maybe I'm just farsighted. I asked Bobby about it, and Bobby took my side. He never does that. No one ever does. Just Sam against Dad, and Dad's gone. Sam figured if he cut a hole in a note card I could slide it along and go word by word. It's worked well enough that he's thrilled. Looks like I still get to help with research, and searching for hunts.

--

Both men slipped quietly into the Impala, at a loss for words. Sometimes words weren't necessary. Other times there weren't enough. By unspoken agreement, they didn't stop to eat, just drove straight to the cemetery. It was dark out by the time they'd gotten there, Dean took one or two wrong turns, and Sam wasn't sure if it was on purpose or if his brother really was lost. Dean never got lost, but all the same he'd never been more lost in his whole life. Dean watched Sam quietly get out of the car, unable to meet his brother's eyes, not that Sam was able to even look at Dean. He understood his brother's choice, and respected it in a way he couldn't before. But, he wasn't sure what Dean would see in his eyes, so he didn't look up. He looked back at the car, feeling a little lost.

"Hey Mom. Guess this is goodbye. Not like we'll forget you. I mean, I won't forget the pictures, or the stories. Or what you were like in those coupla seconds when you saved us. I just…" Sam gently put the flowers down at the base of the headstone. He stood there, not sure what to say, but not able to leave, either.

When it started to rain, Dean groaned, and looked into the gloom, trying to find Sam, or some sign his brother was coming back to the car. Hesitantly, he let his fingertips rest on the handle of the door, slipping the keys easily from the ignition and slipping them into his jacket pocket. It was the grayish blue one with the weird straps on the shoulders –the whole reason he'd picked it, he thought they looked cool. With a sigh, he opened the door, closing his eyes at the soft creak and the gentle sound of the rain. One boot stepping into the road with a soft splash. Not a puddle, but enough water rested on the road that Dean would have a hard time walking silently. Closing his door he made sure it was locked. Hesitantly, his foot moved up onto the curb, before the other sank wetly into soggy grass. He didn't notice the rain picking up. Didn't notice it soaking into his clothes, causing his skin to break out in goose bumps, or the way his clothes pulled and stuck to his body. Mind completely blank, his heart thudded in his chest; a rising rhythm to his panic.

--

"Sam?" I call softly. Speeding up into a light jog, I grimace at the soggy wet sounds my shoes make as they pull away from the wet grass and slam down into it again. "Sam?" I ask more urgently. I see him. Head bowed. "Mom…"

--

The whisper makes no impact against the darkness. Dean moves forward, his movements jerky and broken, coming to pull even with his brother, glancing at the stone, a wet grey color in the dark rain. Two fingers splay out, the thumb and other two more loose as his fingers lightly trace "M-a-r-y W-i-n-c-h-e-s-t-e-r" feeling the grit of the stone under his fingertips. Sam watches. And more importantly, Sam understands. Dean's sorting out the anthill, making sense of the scrambling and running letters, so he'll never lose their mother's name. He can just barely hear his brother's whispered words, starting out in a sick parody of his own.

"Bye, Mom. Stupid, huh? Talking to a headstone. I never got that in books. Or movies. Sam'd laugh if he knew I've actually read some books. A lot, actually. Used to hide them under my mattress, wrapped up in dirty jeans. Anything to keep them private and mine. And he thought he was the only one. Dad just…didn't get it, he never did, huh Mom? I'm talking to a rock. You told me once you'd had a pet rock. Not that you're like a pet rock! I just…well, if…if there's…if you're, if you're still there, then, then you know what I mean. I hope. I don't…I just wanted to be a good son. A good brother. And Sam says I didn't kill you. Says that you're still there somewhere, souls don't just burn up like that. Think he doesn't want me to beat myself up too much. Stupid, huh? I'm the strong one, right?" He wasn't sure if it was rain or tears on his cheeks. "But, I've got…I won't forget you. You know that, wherever you are, right? I won't ever forget you. But, I can't keep doing this. Like what Dad did. Can't keep this hate…this anger burning in my heart all the time. It hurts too much, and it'll kill me the same way it did him. And I can't do that to Sam. I got a second chance, Mom. And hell, I paid for it in spades, but, I'm not gonna screw this up.

"So, I've got…I gotta let go. Gotta let you go." His voice broke, fingertips still tracing the letters compulsively. "I won't…they say that you don't die just as long as you're not forgotten. I will always remember you. _Always_. You know that, right? I love you, I just…goodbye. I gotta say goodbye. Because…Dad couldn't. And I don't want to be Dad. I used to think that I should be, and if I could be, then maybe he'd accept me. Funny thing was I think I just made it worse, trying too hard. You used to tell me that was my biggest problem, I tried to hard, got frustrated and would have breakdowns. Well, I grew up a little. Stopped with the whole crying thing." He runs a hand through rain soaked hair, hand stopping to rest on the back of his neck. "Guess I screwed up though, recently. But I promised myself I'd never come here. Because if I did, I'd admit you were gone. Stupid, huh? You're never really gone. At least I can't believe that. I gotta, I gotta believe that you're…some of you is in me, in Sam. In our blood. In our hearts. God I hope he can't hear me. But, you…it's you I wanted to be, not Dad. I would try so hard to be good for Sam. Try and love him the way you would have. Like some idiot kid knows how a mother should feel, or a father. But, I'm the one who fed him. Made sure he had a bottle, clean diapers. God, I was four. Five. Six. And I was still taking care of him, and Dad never stepped up. Sounds like I'm just raggin' on him, huh? He took care of us. We had money, we had food. And he made some of the most loyal friends…

"They died for us. I still don't know why, sometimes.

"I tried so hard Mom, I tried so hard to be brave every day for you. To keep loving because some teacher told me once that when you stop loving, you stop living. And I had to keep living, because if I stopped, I'd kill you. And hell, maybe I killed you anyway. And I'm sorry. But I've tried so hard. He said, live, learn, and most of all, love. Love's what makes the world go 'round. And I wrote him off. But I've had so much time to think. And maybe he was right, huh? 'Cause when Dad died, it hurt, and I went dead inside, and Sam and I, we did…so bad. And it hurt so much to love him again, and to keep loving Dad, and love hurts so bad. I love you so much. I miss you. I miss…I miss a lot. But I get it.

"Not my life, not supposed to be. I don't believe in fate, but I can believe in the past. I lived it, right? It's over. And this road I'm on? I'll see it through. And what kills me the most is that there won't be anyone after me'n Sam. No more Winchesters. No one to carry on, with your blood in their veins. Unless Dad…he wouldn't have. And I didn't. No one should ever raise a kid on their own. And I don't know what to do. Because… this life isn't right, Mom. But I'm choosing it, okay? And I…I'm not gonna love it every second of every day, because sometimes it just sucks _ass_ but I just…I'm picking it okay? Not Dad, not Sam, not anyone. And, it's not about revenge. Maybe I've got a hero complex," he forces a bitter smile. "But that whole 'with great power' bit…well, it's true isn't it? Sam and I, we know what's out there, and we can stop those sons of bitches from hurting anyone else. We can stop it. And so, I'm choosing it. And I wanted you to know that, just so you won't be mad at Dad or anything. He can be real pig headed…but, hell, I've heard you were stubborn, too," he chokes. "But, he did his best. And I don't think he messed up or anything.

"And Sam says I can't keep blaming myself for everything." He runs a hand through his hair again, before rubbing at his jaw and knuckling his eyes.

"Says not everything's my fault. But what's he know about anything? Don't think I can ever forgive myself for letting him die, Mom. Maybe one day, huh? If we live that long. God I don't know how to do this. I just, I needed you, y'know? I needed Dad, I don't know how to do this. I'm so lost right now, and I'm trying so hard to keep it together for Sammy, but he knows I'm barely doing it, and I don't want to let him down. I can't let everyone down, Mom. I'm sick of letting down the people I love. There aren't enough of them, and for me to keep doing it…

"Bobby asked me if I was that screwed in the head. I'm not, I'm not am I? Of course that's the guy standing here talking to a rock…I guess I'm doing just great, aren't I? Fuck, I can't do this. Probably shouldn't swear around you, right? That's what? A spanking and a time out? That first time I said 'son of a bitch' I'll never forget. Dad was fixing the car, and he closed the hood on his hand. I learned so many new words that day. And you, you wanted to know where I'd learned 'em, and I didn't have anyone to blame it on, so I had to say 'Dad' and you were so pissed at him. I remember you made him sleep on the couch, because he asked if he could come sleep with me, and you caught him, and you…you 'banished' him to the couch. I got upset, so you had me come sleep with you. And I cried, and I was so sorry, and you knew I was sorry, and Dad was sorry, too. So, next night, the three of us stayed up late and curled up together. I don't really remember it, but Dad says I'm not making it up.

"But, I guess…I'm here to say goodbye. I have to let go, and I don't know how," he whispers, falling to his knees, sending a spike of alarm through Sam before he calms. Dean's dealing. It takes everything in him to stay back and give his brother space while Dean cries himself out for what Sam hopes is the last time. Dean's hoping it, too, he thinks it is. There's nothing left to cry about. But he never got a chance to grieve for his mother. Maybe it's about time. Maybe now he can finally let go. Maybe it's over. Finally. Maybe everything'll be okay, and he can just…live a little. For himself. Without having to feel like a selfish bastard. Without having to feel like he's failing his father. Or his brother. Or his mother. Or Jim, or Caleb, or Bobby. But Bobby said he could never fail him. And Dean believes that, because he has to. Sam says the same, not with his words, but with his eyes, with his love.

The rain goes through the night. Dean doesn't move the whole time, even after he stops crying. He just settles back onto his haunches, waiting. When the sun comes up again, he nods, rubbing at his damp hair before standing up, and straightening his clothes. Sam sat down in the mud, for all he knew he'd have to wait for it to dry before being allowed into the Impala. Dean nods once, then twice, slapping at his clothes to brush them off, turning away from the gravestone, only to look at it again over his shoulder. Sniffing once, he swallowed hard, and nodded. "Goodbye," he whispered, eyebrows contracted, blinking away tears. Goodbye. Sam followed him, making a face at the squelching sucking sounds made by their footsteps. In a few hours, it would be so hot the ground would be like dust, and he sighed. He looked at Dean, and smiled. Things were gonna be rough. But they'd be okay. He'd help Dean deal with the 'anthill' and they'd hunt, and save people, and kill as many evil sons of bitches as they possibly could.

Things are hard. They've been hard.

But we're doing better now. We're finally brothers again.


End file.
